


Half-Full Dreams, Half-Empty Hopes

by illiana



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse, Gen, Neglect, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:04:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 27,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illiana/pseuds/illiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Rose Lalonde, and your mom is currently passed out drunk on the couch. Some days you think you should win an award for best actress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is Rose Lalonde. Your mother is currently passed out in the living room. On her good days, she makes it out and scrapes up enough money from somewhere to feed you. It's a system that works, except on days like today when she hasn't had a good day in about a month.

You are nine years old and every time you tell your mom that she needs to go shopping she tells you that she has _too_ been working and right now she's just waiting on the board to approve her research. You want to ask if the research in question was based around the developmental effects of starving an eight year old half to death, but you know better than to say something like that. Instead, you sigh and reply, "But there's no more food and I'm hungry. Your research isn't getting me fed right now." You hate to whine, but the situation seems to justify it.

"There's cauliflower in the fridge --" your mom starts.

You resist the urge to wave your hand in an imitation of the dismissive gesture she sometimes uses when you tell her that it's not healthy to drink as much as she does. "No, there's not. I ate that a week ago."

"Is the steak still in the freezer?" You nod.

Your mother rolls over on the couch, her patience for you clearly spent.

Your name is Rose Lalonde and it is time for you to learn how to cook a steak because your mom sure as hell isn't going to.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Today is July 15th. It has been exactly two months since your mother last went shopping, and exactly three weeks since you exhausted all possibility of finding edible food in your house.

Your mother was sober enough to greet you after school on May 18th. She pulled her head out of the bottle long enough to pay the bills on May 27th. Since then you've been carefully sorting the bills and piling them on the table for when she manages to sober up enough to actually pay them or you manage to scrape together enough to pay them yourself, whichever comes first. (It's probably a miracle the electricity hasn't been turned off yet, but you don't like to think about that.

School starts on September 5th. You are counting down the days until you can have a guaranteed two meals a day again. In the mean time, you stay away from home because it's sort of scary, being there with only your mom and she's drunk off her ass again. Mostly you spend your time at the park and the library. You like the library best because of the quiet hush that blankets it over the sleepy drone of the fans scattered throughout the shelves. It isn't air conditioned very well, but you don't mind the sticky heat too much.

When you come in, the librarian recognizes you and smiles. You slide your most recently finished book into the return slot and wave.

"How are you, Ms. Lalonde?" The librarian's name tag says Mrs. Hope, and you think that's a sort of funny name but you love it because it suits her with her kind smile and happy eyes and the way she addresses you so formally and makes you feel so grown up. You can't really think of a better name for her.

"Good," you reply in the reverent whisper you reserve for this place. "You look hungry."

If anyone else had asked that, you would have denied it and ran out of there, but from her it's just part of the typical greeting. You shrug and admit, "A little bit."

"You look a little bit hungry? Are you positive about that, Ms. Lalonde?" That elicits a giggle. "I _am_ a little hungry, Mrs. Hope."

"Well I have some fruit for you, but I'm going to have to sneak you into the back room," she says, pursing her lips like she's not too sure about this. "I could get into a lot of trouble, you know."

You regard her solemnly. "I promise not to hurt anything or make a mess."

She smiles and it lights up her green eyes. "I guess we can get you in then." She stands up and lets you behind the desk and through the door that leads into the cluttered room with the books that need to go back to the shelves or wish for some glue to keep them together. The room feels nice, you think. A little stuffy when the window is shut, but it smells like books and knowledge and there's a chair reserved just for you.

Mrs. Hope goes to her purse and pulls out a ziplock bag with oranges and apples and strawberries. You're already calculating, thinking about how long you could make that last. Dinner and tomorrow's breakfast, at the very least. It's the most she's brought you since this unspoken arrangement started a month ago. Usually it's just a few strawberries or a handful of grapes, barely enough to take the gnawing edge off the hunger that threatens to kill you.

"Thank you," you say, and you really don't know what you would be doing without Mrs. Hope.

"It's nothing." She gives you that piercing look of hers, and you know beyond a fraction of a doubt that she knows your home life is shit at the moment.

You pull out an apple and bite into it before pointing at one of the books on the shelf. "What's that one about?"

You know they're mostly nonfiction, but that doesn't bother you in the slightest. It's still interesting to hear about them.

"A guide to calculus. It's difficult reading and not really all that interesting."  
  
"Calculus?"

"Math."

"... Oh. And that one?"

"A biography on Abraham Lincoln."

"Oh." You've already read that one; it was a silly question.

The game continues for several minutes, and then you point to a stout book that looks rather old. "What about that one?"

"An introduction to psychology."

You aren't too sure what that is, so you ask, "What's psychology? The study of....?"

Mrs. Hope smiles. "You're getting pretty good at your roots, Ms. Lalonde. _Psych_ means mind. Psychology is the study of the mind."

"That doesn't sound very interesting." You frown. "What's it actually about?" You've learned that sometimes that's the better question to ask.  
  
"Oh, what makes people do what they do, mental disorders, stuff like that."

"What makes people do what they do?" Your echoes of her words escape your lips before you can stop them. "Does it help you understand?"

"I'm sure it does," she replies, "if you get in depth enough."   
  
You grin.

~~~~

Half an hour later, you leave the library smelling like the glue they use to put books back together and old paper. In one hand you clutch a bag of fruit that will sustain you for the next day, and you cradle the book on psychology against your chest with your other arm as if it's the secret to life itself.

Maybe if you learn the why behind your mother's actions you can steal her back from the alcohol abuse monster that has eaten her.


	3. Chapter 3

The inside of the house resembles the deepest parts of a subterranean cave. No light can pierce the heavy curtains drawn across the windows. The air holds a dry chill that seems unnatural compared to the humid, baking temperatures outside. Knowing something is off, you creep forward carefully, watching where you place your feet and avoiding the creaky parts of the floor.

Your mother is not in the living room. An expletive threatens to cross your lips, but you choose to hold your breath instead. She couldn't be sober, could she? (It's unreasonable for you to think like that. You know the idea is supposed to make you happy.)

Sounds of cutlery emanate from the kitchen. With a heavy heart, you dart across the living room. Your back presses against the wall, strong and reassuring despite the questions that this scenario has caused. Another person might be hopeful, but you feel nothing but a dry cynicism. Your mother simply cannot be sober, and if she is, it won't last long. However, these thoughts fail to stop you from taking a quick peek around the corner and into the kitchen.

Your eyes register chaos before you pull away and flee to your room. You might care about her a little bit, but if she's hungry it's really not your concern. After all, she didn't care when you told her that there was literally nothing edible left in the house. Self-preservation must come first.

The book on psychology goes on your dresser; the bag of fruit goes under the bed, behind your violin case and the box of school supplies that you keep under there. For a moment you pause, considering the possibility of just staying there where your mother won't bother you.

"Rose! Get down here!"

You sigh and decide to respond to her summons with a prim, "Coming, mother dearest," that she probably doesn't hear even though you yell it at the top of your lungs. With a last backwards glance to make sure everything is safe you, straighten your skirt, brush the dust off your knees, and start down the stairs.

When you reach the kitchen, it's hard to keep your face straight. Silverware is scattered over the floor amongst upturned drawers, and the cabinets seem ever so slightly disturbed. The fridge is empty, but the door is thrown open. It hums sadly to itself in a pool of golden light, apparently freshly plugged in. (You unplugged it when there was no longer a need for it, along with the microwave and coffee pot; you try to conserve as much energy as possible.)

Your mother turns away from the pantry, throwing a rolling pin on the floor as she whirls on you. The marble rolling pin hits the floor with a heavy crack. "Rose, where's all the food?" She's angry, you know, upset for no discernible reason.

What are you supposed to say to that? 'I ate it' doesn't seem appropriate, so you reply, "It's gone."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you need to go shopping because I ate it all."

Your mother glares at you. "What the hell did you do that for?"

Lesser people than yourself have melted under that look, but you stand your ground and glare right back. "I was hungry."

"Hungry? That's not an excuse to eat me out of house and home. There was absolutely no reason for you to eat everything in this house. You didn't even leave the spices! I feed you well enough. You should have known better than to pull something like this. Making a pig of yourself like that is downright uncivilized. I thought I raised you better than this, taught you to act like part of a proper society and not go around stuffing your face with every bit of food you can find."

Your mother continues ranting about how you're a pig, about how you're so stupid, about how _she's_  not a failure, but _you_  are and every problem that has ever plagued her is directly your fault.

Your fault she hasn't gone shopping

Your fault she hasn't received that letter or call or whatever it is from her precious board.

Your fault she's constantly drunk.

Your fault she can't bear to be seen in public with you.

You know that you should feel more than you do, but all emotion has drained away. You feel like you're sinking in on yourself, nothing but emptiness in your chest. Your mother hates you, or something like that. You don't even know what's happening at this point.

Her hand smacks across your face, stinging and burning. "Are you even listening?!"

She has tears in her bloodshot eyes. Running mascara traces delicate patterns on her cheeks. Her mouth is a mess of clumsily applied lipstick that has been smudged and smeared almost beyond recognition. Her hair resembles a rat's nest, all bedhead and tangles that you think will need to be cut out.

This is not your mother. You don't know what happened to her, but this woman certainly isn't her. Your mother could keep it together and would _never_  resort to a tantrum as shameless as the one she's very clearly throwing right now.

You shiver, and it isn't just because the AC feels like it's set to cool at fifty degrees Fahrenheit.

When the words slip out of your mouth, you don't regret them. "Of course I'm not listening, mother. You insist on berating me when I've been doing what I need to in order to survive. You haven't gone shopping in ages. Of course there's not food in this house. Did you honestly expect me to save food for you when you couldn't be bothered to go shopping when I told you that we were down to a handful of eggs and a couple pieces of bread? Believe me, mother, it is far from my fault that there's nothing edible here. Perhaps if you'd been a better parental figure and hadn't endorsed blatant neglect for the past month I'd manage to feel some sorrow for your plight. As it is, I couldn't care less about your hunger. Want something to fill your stomach? Have some more champagne, dear. If you fancy something stronger, there's always vodka, provided you haven't already consumed all of it." You know you heart should be thudding. You know you shouldn't have said that. You just can't care.

Your mother gives you a look that you choose to interpret as a forfeit of her turn and then spins on her heel to stalk out of the room. You hear the jangle of the keys she snatches off the coffee table and feel her slam the door so hard it shakes the whole house.

A pot by your feet trembles on the floor, making an almost musical sound from the vibrations seeping into it.

Feeling oddly disconnected, you pick up the pot and walk sedately towards the stairs leading to the basement. In the basement are racks and racks and racks of all the alcohol your mother could ever want. The light flickers ever so slightly, wavering as if it were drunk itself.

When you swing the pot down, it connects firmly with bottles. The next ten minutes are spent with a symphony created of breaking glass and the splashes of expensive, aged drinks hitting the ground. When you are done, there's a good inch of alcohol on the floor that stains your shoes a dirty reddish-brown that sort of reminds you of dried blood. It sloshes against your feet as you walk back to the stairs, your trusty pot hanging by your side.

A trail of wine follows you back into the living room. Your shoes need changed, so you go to the closet and pull out a pair of flip flops that will work until your sneakers dry.

Underneath the film of old bottles resting on top of the coffee table, you find a notepad and a pen. You scribble a message on a sheet of paper and tape it to the basement door:

_Enjoy your present, mother._

_Love,_  
 _Rose_

You leave the house, carefully shutting the door behind you. This seems like a good time to head to the park.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you're pretty certain that your mother is going to kill you for what you just did.


	4. Chapter 4

You are currently perched in the highest tree you could find, hidden by leaves and cradled safely by the branches. Below you, the park is spread out. The delighted screams of children and the occasional squeak from the swings have created the background music for your tears, though it took you awhile to get it together enough to actually cry.

You think you've been in this tree for maybe three hours. The sun is starting to dip below the horizon, sending spindly shadows stretching across the ground for each other. Crickets chirp drowsily and the buzzing of the cicadas has ceased for the time being. It's nice in your tree, safe and free from the world.

Sadly, you aren't quite naive enough to believe you could spend the night in the tree. That would make your mother call the police and you don't need that. However, that doesn't mean you're going to go home any time soon. You intend to put off the inevitable confrontation as long as humanly possible.

You guess you're just going to wait in the tree until you think your face looks a little less splotchy. (By now you should know better than to cry, especially in public, but sometimes it's hard to not fall apart.)

When the frisbee smacks into the tree a mere six inches from your face and lodges itself in the branches, you bite back a strangled yelp of terror before you realize that it's just a frisbee.

You start to relax again when you realize that the owner of the frisbee is probably going to climb the tree to get it back and oh shit there is a boy climbing the tree with all the grace of a beached whale.

The dappled shade and leaves aren't going to be enough to hide you when the frisbee is literally right next to you. It's far too late to move, though it's not like you could have fled if you wanted to. Your body seems to be paralyzed, locked into place with apprehension as you hold your breath, waiting for the boy to... You don't really know what you think he's going to do. You just know that it's going to be unpleasant.

By the time he reaches your branch, he's panting. You still haven't moved. His hand reaches for the frisbee. You think you might just get away with being up here without him noticing; after all, he seems a little distracted to you.

He's about to start back down when his eyes flick to you. Your heart pounds, but you hold his gaze, noting that his eyes are a startling blue behind rectangular glasses.

He seems as startled by you as you are by him. "Oh, um, hi. I hope I wasn't interrupting you or anything, if you were hiding or something...?"

The end turns up in a question. Something in his face tells you that he knows you've been crying, and you suppose your mother's hand print is probably still a stark red against your pale face.

"No." You hesitate, realizing how cold that sounded. "I mean, you aren't interrupting, and I guess I am hiding but not from you or anything so it's okay."

"Oh." He hesitates, halfway between up and down, frisbee clutched tightly in one hand and clinging to a branch with the other.

Awkward silence takes over. Your stomach seems to find this unacceptable because it decides to growl loudly. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, and part of you is grateful for this because it surely masks the hand print.

"Hey, uhm, if you're hungry we have food down there... We being my dad and I, I mean. We were on a sort of picnic? I'm John by the way and wow you're really pretty."

You don't know what to say to this. Here's this boy that you don't even know, offering you food and telling you you're pretty all while he looks like he's about to fall out of the same tree you've been hiding in since you left your house.

Logic tells you not to accept his offer. Survival instinct tells you to thank him and scurry down that tree as fast as your skinny limbs can take you.

Survival instinct wins out.

"Are you serious?"

"About feeding you? Yeah."

"Well I guess I'm going to take you up on your offer then." You raise an eyebrow at him. "Do you want me to take the frisbee for you?"

He glances down at the object in his hand as if he's surprised to discover it's still there. Mutely, he nods, so you take it and start down the tree, all confident and certain. He follows behind at a slower pace, and when you're both on the ground he motions towards another tree across the bike path from your tree.

"That's ours," he tells you, leading the way.

"Oh."

Spread out on the plaid blanket is an array of food that you haven't seen since school let out. Suddenly all sense of decorum is gone, and all you want to do is eat one of those sandwiches and a couple cookies and holy crap is that a whole cake out here?!

"You can have anything you want," John tells you. He pauses, and then adds, "If you tell me your name, that is?"

You stare at him, coming to the conclusion that he likes you but he really sucks at showing it. Out of something between hunger and a desire to be polite, you say, "I'm Rose."

He smiles, all goofy and happy. "That's a nice name."

"John's a nice name, too," you counter.

John shrugs. "Well what do you want?"

You don't think you can point and talk fast enough. John doesn't call you a pig or say you're being silly or anything like that, but gives you everything you ask for. Together you sit under the tree, him babbling about his life and you eating, half wishing that you had some way to stash this food away and save it for later.

It doesn't occur to you that John must have a dad until the man comes walking towards you, his suit neat and clean-looking despite the heat, his hat pulled low over his face. He smiles at you and greets John, apparently not finding it odd that a strange girl is currently eating his food.

When you've eaten all you can, you thank them both profusely, and John brushes it off by saying, "Wanna go play frisbee?"

You agree because you want to spend more time with John and you suspect that as soon as you leave the park he's going to forget about you and you're going to go home and die (though at least you'll die with a full stomach.) As you're tossing the frisbee back and forth, he tries to include you in conversation.

"Where are you from?"

"Here."

"Where're your parents?"

Your eyes dart up to meet his before locking back on the frisbee. Something makes you tell the truth, and for once you don't immediately regret it. "I've never known my dad, and my mom is a neglectful drunkard."

He seems startled by this. "Really?"

"I don't normally tell people that, and I'm not fond of attention as it is." You stare at him, wondering what made you think admitting to that was a good idea. "Thanks for feeding me, by the way."

"Uh, no problem. It just seemed like a good idea."

"That's questionable." You shrug. "I appreciate it though."

He seems a bit flustered, and if you're honest you're doing all you can to keep him off balance. Part of you finds it amusing that the truth keeps him so distracted and unable to plan his next move, but you like it because it means he can't think well enough to lie to you. Not that it would really matter, you suppose, because he's only a stranger, albeit a stranger kind enough to feed you.

"Well it needed to be done. No one deserves to be hungry."

You like the sincerity in his words, the way he looks at you like you're the only girl in the world.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you think you might have begun the slow descent into madness that they call love.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time you begin to make your way home, the sun has been down for over an hour. In your hand is a paper with an address; John has a similar scrap of paper with your mom's PO box number. (Giving him the box number was bad enough, but you aren't stupid enough to actually give out your address.)

You liked the way he seemed so innocent, the way he promised to feed you if your mom wouldn't, as if he actually lived here and not all the way on the other side of the country. You also liked that his dad sort of embodied the way you thought dads should be. The cynical part of you insisted that you would probably never see him again, but the hopeful part insisted that he would reply to your letters and it would all work out.

When you reach your house, you are determined to somehow not die. You doubt your mother will have appreciated your shenanigans with the wine cellar, but with any luck she'll already be so drunk that it won't matter.

You open the door and step in. She's snoring on the couch, and you breathe a sigh of relief. As you make your way towards the stairs, you notice McDonalds wrappers sitting on the coffee table. Your mother went out and bought food for herself. It's extremely doubtful she managed to bring any back for you. This might have disappointed you before, but right now it's about par for the course.

It surprises you how normal the house looks. You thought that she would have done something to retaliate, but perhaps she hadn't noticed yet.

You open the door to your room, and your breath leaves you. Everything is ruined, drenched in what you suspect is the same wine you spilled onto the floor two stories down. If it could be broken, it's shattered. Broken glass from your mirror rests on the floor as if daring you to step in and not cut yourself. The windows are untouched, but you guess that's a simple blessing that stemmed from her not wanting to have to replace them more than any pity for you.

On the far wall is a note written on the same stationary you used to write her the note you left on the door to the cellar. You suck in a breath and walk across the the room, wincing at the way the carpet squelches beneath your shoes.

The note smirks at you, written in her beautiful cursive.

_Rose, thank you so much for your present. I hope you enjoy my present as much as I enjoyed yours._

_~Mother_

You take a deep breath. It's okay, really. You can fix it. There wasn't anything important in here, other than your.... Oh no.

It's easy to see that the book isn't on your dresser, but with luck it was simply knocked under something.

You can't reach your bed fast enough. Broken glass bites at your hands and knees as you drop to all fours, eyes searching for the things most dear to you.

The first thing you notice is that the bag of fruit is gone. The second thing you note is that your violin appears to be fine. The third thing is that the book you checked out from the library is missing. A glance around the room confirms this: it might be a mess, but you're certain the book would stick out.

You pull the violin case out from under the bed, dry it off with a shirt that seems to be only slightly damp, and open it. Yes, your beloved instrument is perfectly fine. The same cannot be said for the book, knowing your mother.

You open your door and run down the stairs, through the living room, and back into the wine cellar. On the bottom step, you stop, tears welling up in your eyes.

The book is floating on the floor, pages stained red. With no small amount of desperation, you fish it out of the soup of alcohol and try to turn the pages. They are all wet and sticky, completely ruined.

You think you're going to cry.

~*~*~*~*

Your knees bleed from the glass you knelt on, but you don't have time to attend to that. You guess they should be fine for the moment, seeing how when you knelt on the glass you were also kneeling on a good amount of alcohol. Your hands are a different matter, but only because you can't afford to get blood all over the book on top of the wine that has already soaked the pages. You bind your hands quickly and efficiently, not bothering to clean them even though you know you really should.

You don't know how you're going to save the book, but you start by drying the pages with a hair dryer. You think you might have seen this in a movie? From there you try to gently separate the pages that have been stuck together.

It's tedious, but it gives you a good amount of time to plot your revenge.


	6. Chapter 6

You don't sleep that night. By the time the sun is peeking through the window, the book is mostly dry but the pages are tinted red and warped. In short, it is not in a returnable condition. Google would be a thing that can help you, you decide. It's a good thing your mom has a laptop and the neighbors have wifi.

After a quick search, you come to the conclusion that ironing the book can only help, so long as you're careful. The iron is easy to find, and you work slowly, ensuring that you're not doing more damage than you already have.

You've already decided that this can't continue. Your mother can hurt you far more than you can hurt her, and you really don't like the idea of coming home to another disaster like last night's. You don't really know what can be done, though.

A quick glance at an abandoned watch sitting by the sink tells you that it is six in the morning. You turn off the iron, fold up the ironing board and prop it against the door, and set the iron on the counter to cool. The bathroom seems too hot from the iron's steam, but it isn't quite so cramped without the ironing board taking up floor space. The computer hums on the back of the toilet, but you ignore it and perch on the side of the tub. It's unlikely that your mother would exert the necessary energy to come all the way up here to use the bathroom, and if you aren't in your room she probably won't harass you if by some miracle she manages to sober up.

You open the book and start reading with the help of the weak light pushing through the tiny window.

If you were less tired you would probably turn that into some sort of fancy metaphor for your current situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really just filler because I really need to update and finals have been a bitch. I'll throw up a legitimate, useful update either later today or tomorrow, since I have some stuff written for this that needs to be typed up.


	7. Chapter 7

Twelve pages and twenty minutes of hard reading later, you decide that dictionaries are your best friends.

Your eyes sting and you sort of hurt all over from a variety of things. Your stomach growls, and for a moment you worry that it was somehow loud enough to wake your mother.

It's time for you to leave the house.

~~~~

The first place you stop is the post office. You've decided not to do the smart thing and make a copy of the key because that would require tools and money you don't exactly have. It's not like your mom ever checks the box anyway. She doesn't even use it, so you figure you might as well.

You dislike the smell of the post office. It smells a bit like the library, but less friendly, you guess? The whole place feels sterile and you can't wait to get out of there as fast as you possibly can. You glance at the box number on the key and make your way to the tiny door in question.

Your hands shake as you put the key in, and you're not entirely sure why. It takes a bit of wiggling, but eventually you get the key turned and you know without even opening it that the nondescript cardboard box contains food.

John gave you food, somehow. He sent you food before he even left, and while part of you knows that it would typically be impossible to get mail delivered so fast, you aren't going to question it. Food is food.

You leave the post office, running back to the park because there's nowhere else you want to be.

Maybe, just maybe, you'll survive. Your Mother can't kill you if you don't let her.

~*~*~*~*

It's another week before they cut the electricity. You haven't done anything to repair the situation between you and your mother, but you haven't retaliated either. You've been slowly working your way through the book, but it's hard to understand everything. You wish you could go back to the library for help and explain what happened, but you don't know what you would say. You've been wavering between never going back or running there to plead your innocence.

Your hand is forced when the air conditioning shudders to a halt around noon. The house seems too quiet without electricity. It isn't any darker than normal -- yet -- but it's eerie without the humming of various appliances that you didn't notice until they were gone. The air seems heavier than usual, and it isn't long before it's heated to something unbearable.

You sigh and mark your page in the book. Your hair is already sticking to your forehead, curling into your eyes. You note somewhat absently that you need a haircut as you start down the stairs. You're maybe halfway down when you hear something crash on the first floor, and you probably shouldn't go down there but part of you thinks this is necessary.

Another crash resounds from the kitchen, so you carefully avoid it and dash through the living room and through the front door.

You immediately notice that the outside feels nicer than the inside. You decide you're not going to go back, not for awhile.

If your Mother wants you around, she can wake up and start being a parent again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say 'later today or tomorrow"? Uhm, I guess that roughly translates to "a week later."
> 
> I feel like such a horrible person.


	8. Chapter 8

The fans drone on drowsily. You stand in front of the desk, resisting the urge to fidget. You refuse to act uncomfortable just because you are. To take your mind off of the unpleasantness that will surely commence as soon as someone comes out, you imagine that the fans are acting out their lives. The oscillating one is an actor, and the big fat industrial one squatting on the floor is a criminal. The funny looking tower-shaped one is a cop, you decide. The criminal is going to rob the actor, but the cop is going to prevent it and they'll all live happily ever after.

This set of events can only keep you satisfied for so long. You've decided that things are rarely what they appear; after all, to the rest of the world your mother is a perfectly respectable… Scientist? You think that she might have called herself that before she started drinking so much. Instead of just letting the story end with the arrest of the industrial fan, you decide to expand the story.

The industrial fan wasn't always a criminal, and it didn't really like breaking the law. However, it couldn't find a job and its kids – the smaller fans that perched wherever they could find free space – were going to starve. The industrial fan is a good father, you determine. It started doing whatever it had to in order to keep its children safe and free from hunger.

You wish your mom was like that. You also wish that your biological father, wherever he might be, would suck it up and be as nice of a father as the industrial fan is.

It takes a moment for you to realize that you've inadvertently turned your fan story into a tragedy. Now that Mr. Industrial Fan is going to prison for the attempted robbery of Mrs. Oscillating fan, his kids will be without food. You can almost see the smaller fans shrinking in on themselves, spiraling into depression. Tower-Shape watches with apathy, convinced of Industrial's guilt.

"Ms. Lalonde?"

You jump when you hear your name, slamming back into reality. "Oh, um, hi."

Mrs. Hope smiles at you. "It's been awhile since you came in."

You straighten your back. "Yeah. I… I kinda have something to tell you about? I mean, if you aren't too busy."

She looks a little confused, but her smile doesn't fade. "Sure." She motions at the back room. "Want to sit down and have some water?"

You nod. "That'd be nice." Then you swallow because it just feels so wrong for her to be so nice when you have to tell her that you ruined the book you checked out. Though she doesn't know that yet, you guess, so she can't really be expected to act properly.

You follow her back and sit in the chair that's always been just for you. There are no fans in here, but fresh air wanders in through the open window. The humidity seems unbearable, but you don't really want to leave. It's a comfortable place, here, even if you have unpleasant things to say.

Mrs. Hope pulls two iced water bottles out of a cooler shoved under one of the tables lining the walls of the room. She tosses one to you and cracks her own open. "So what's up, kiddo?"

You glance guiltily at the book in your hands, and then it all comes out in a rush. "My mom and I got into a fight and I did some stupid thing that made her really mad at me so when I left the house she tore my room apart but that really would have been okay if she hadn't looked at my dresser but she did and she found the book and she decided to be a great role model and douse it in wine and now the book is ruined and I don't have money to pay for a fine but I wish I did because I would buy the book if I could but I can't and you must hate me because this is all my fault and if I had just been smarter this wouldn't have happened and if I was a better daughter she wouldn't always be like this – she wouldn't have to do stupid stuff to ruin my life like this and you probably hate me now but I'll do anything to make it up to you, anything at all!"

You stop and take a breath, but it catches in your throat when you try to exhale. You bite your lip and try not to cry.

Mrs. Hope's expression is unreadable as she puts her hand out and says softly, "May I see the book?"

You hand it to her. You will not cry, most certainly not. Your mother taught you better than that.

Mrs. Hope flips through the pages, so careful with a book that's now damaged goods because you brought it home out of a desire to help your Mother. You think you'd feel better if she would just look angry, if she would just yell and make you feel like the scum of the earth for the damage done to that book.

She hands the book back to you.

You blurt, "You must hate me. I ruined this book, now no one's ever going to want to read it all because of what I did –"

Mrs. Hope holds out a hand to cut you off. "Why would I hate you?" She speaks kindly, and damn those are definitely tears threatening to spill out of your eyes. "You did an excellent job of limiting the damage done. The pages aren't warped at all, and the text is perfectly legible as far as I can tell."

You bite down on your lower lip again and wait for her to continue.

"Of course, we can't put it back on the shelves; you're right about that. You'll just get to keep the book. As for the fine normally attached to books deemed 'ruined,' I think we can negotiate some way to get around that."

"Y-You aren't angry?" Your tongue trips over the words, stuttering almost in time with the pounding of your heart.

"No, of course not." She shrugs. "Things like this happen. As for the book itself, I think the stains add character."

You leap out of the chair and throw your arms around her neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

She laughs. "Of course, Ms. Lalonde. When do you want to start working the stacks? I think a week will be sufficient to repay any debt you may have to the library."

You think of your mother tearing the kitchen apart in search of food and the baked goods stashed in the drawers of your dresser. "Today."

Mrs. Hope nods, and if she thinks something is odd about your home life, she doesn't mention it.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you now have a legitimate excuse to not spend time at home for a week.


	9. Chapter 9

It's nearly nine before you come home. The house feels miserable, so the first thing you do is open every window you can. Your mom is snoring on the couch, content with her supper of alcohol and mental illness. Out of curiosity, you wander into the kitchen, only to discover that she's ripped it completely apart. The cabinets lack doors; the pantry gapes at you like an open mouth. The linoleum is torn away from the floor in about half the kitchen. You suspect that if you were to go and inspect her nails you would find them to be broken.

When you pass back through the living room, your mom stirs. Yes, she's Mom tonight, not Mother. She mumbles something to herself about her "beautiful Rosie," and you think your heart might be breaking.

In a sudden impulse of tenderness, you cover her with a light blanket and run up the stairs to your room. You return a few minutes later with one of the cupcakes John sent you. It's not even a little bit stale, and you had been looking forward to eating it yourself. You set it on the coffee table and scribble "I love you" onto a piece of stationary.

You think you might regret this in the morning, but you're not sure.

~*~*~*~  
The next day dawns cloudy and more humid than usual. As soon as you open your eyes to the gray light filtered through dark clouds, you leap out of bed and run to shut all the windows you opened last night. It made life tolerable, but it's just going to make your Mother angry if it rains while they're open.

You eat some cookies before donning shoes and grabbing an umbrella. First the library, and then you're going to have to start putting the kitchen back together since she won't. It's going to be a long day.

~*~*~*~  
You like working in the library. Putting the books back on the shelf is pretty easy, and you can usually get done with all of them before lunch. Mrs. Hope has a sandwich for you, and come to think of it, you can't actually remember the last time you ate meat. That's… that's not good.

That night, after you've returned home, you stand in front of the mirror and examine yourself. Despite the amount of time you've been spending outside, your skin is pale and clings to your bony frame. When you run a brush through your hair, a good amount of it comes out. That doesn't seem normal.

A quick round of Googling – you must remember to bring the laptop to the library tomorrow so you can charge the battery – reveals that these are common symptoms of protein deficiency.

You lean back against the wall. Of course you haven't been getting enough protein. You've been more concerned about the eating thing in general, and you haven't been picky about how much protein was contained in what you were eating.

It doesn't quite make sense, but you decide to tell John this. You get some paper and a pen and write him a letter.

 _Dear John,_  
 _Thank you for the cakes and stuff that you sent me. They were amazing, and I think you_   _might actually be magic for getting them to me as fast as you did._

 _I've been working at the library in my spare time to pay off what I owe for the book my_   _mom ruined. When I'm done with this letter I'm going to clean up what she tore apart_   _yesterday in the kitchen. It seems like I'm spending more and more time cleaning up_   _after her, even though I think that it should be the other way around._

_I think I might have a protein deficiency and I don't think that's good._

_Hope you're doing better than I am._   
_Rose_

It seems a little terse, but you're okay with that. It's the first letter, so hopefully conversation will branch off from it. Worst case scenario he doesn't ever reply… though you think that's a pretty bad worst case scenario and it isn't at all reassuring.

You hope he replies.

You hope he replies with food.

You think you're quite disgusting for that last thought.

You fold up the letter and put it in an envelope that you carefully address to him. You'll send it tomorrow. For now, you have a kitchen to clean up.

~*~*~*~

You tape the linoleum back down with duct tape and struggle with how you're supposed to get the doors back onto the cabinets. In the end, you just stack the doors in the pantry and hope for the best. Your mother can't yell at you for helping put things back together.... right?

You finish with the kitchen and open the windows again. Finally, you retreat to your room.

On your door is a note.

_Love you.  
~Mom_

_  
_You don't know what to make of this. Maybe John's cupcake saved her, brought her back and now she's your Mom again.

Only time will tell. 


	10. Chapter 10

 

In late August, you come downstairs one morning to the smell of breakfast cooking. Your heart skips a beat, and logically you know you should probably be terrified for your life, but instead the first thought that forms in your mind is "John's cupcake worked literal miracles," even though it's been three weeks since you gave her the cupcake.

Despite your foolish hope, you can't quite throw caution to the winds. You peer around the corner of the kitchen and you're surprised to see your mom standing in front of the oven. You forged her signature and mailed a check in to pay for the electricity a week ago, but you hadn't expected to really need to use anything but the AC.

She hums as she cooks. Eggs sizzle in a pan. Her hair looks freshly washed and styled, and when she turns her head ever so slightly as she reaches for some salt you notice that her face is void of makeup. You can't decide if this is a good sign or a really horrible one; usually no makeup means she's even more drunk than usual, but once upon a time it meant she was planning on spending the day at home playing with you.

You take a breath and step into the kitchen, so uncertain. "Mother?"

She laughs, and you feel all floaty and light. "Yes, Rose?"

You don't know what to say. You can't tell her you've missed her. You can't ask what happened. All you can do is watch her carefully, ready to flee should she simply be so drunk she appears sober.

"If you sit down I'll bring you breakfast," she says.

You go and sit down at the table in the dining room. It's small, meant for two, and coming back to have a meal there feels like coming home for the first time in months. You don't understand how this is a thing, but you guess it's okay.

Everything seems so much better now that your mom is sober. She smiles, making her eyes crinkle at the corners, and talks and laughs. Even if she doesn't quite carry on a conversation with you, it's still better by far than any reaction you'd withdrawn from her earlier.

When she brings you eggs with bacon and sausage, tears well up in your eyes but you fight them back. Food comes before emotion, always.

"So, Rose," she says, taking a seat across from you with her own plate, "my research's been approved."

"Oh?" You ask around a mouthful of food.

She grins. "Yeah. There's a huge... thing tomorrow. I don't really know what to call it. It's like, a party. A gala. We're going dress shopping today."

You frown. "... Dress shopping?"

"It's formal and it's going to be so much fun!" Her eyes gleam with enthusiasm, but you're feeling nothing but a sinking in your stomach. Something about this feels wrong, and part of you is terrified that she's just going to go back to a neglectful drunkard just as soon as this is over. Still, you plaster a smile on your face and look thrilled. If there's one thing these last several months have taught you, it's that hope is important.

You let her babble about how awesome this is going to be while you tuck everything about this moment away in your memory. You missed her when she was like this. You wish you had the courage to tell her that the drunken antics weren't okay, but there's a knot of emotion in your throat that you can't force truth past. The only words you speak are coated in fake enthusiasm that she needs to be happy.

A ball of contradiction. That's what you are. You missed seeing her like this. You love to see her eyes bright and full of life instead of dulled by alcohol. You like the way she has more energy than you do, the way she motions with her hands and almost _sparkles_  with her enthusiasm. Yet part of you can't trust it. You're on edge, ready to flee even though it seems like she's plenty sober.

You honestly hate yourself for this. Your greatest wish has been granted. You have your mother back. Still, the question persists in the back of your mind: How long is this going to last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of happy feels for a change this time. Enjoy them while they last.
> 
> This might be the only update this week. It might not be. I was hoping to finish this sometime this week but that's probably not going to happen since the death throes of my computer have rendered it inoperable and the one I'm currently contending with is a pain in the ass to use. So yeah. We'll see.
> 
> Thank goodness I've been saving this to 750words and not my computer.


	11. Chapter 11

She's a whirlwind, you think, when she isn't drunk. The room she's in seems to buzz with energy as she flits from rack to rack, her eyes sparkling as she turns to you with dress after dress, her fingers running across expensive cloth, holding it up to herself and then further away to examine the craftsmanship of the dress itself. You can't help but grin, despite how awkward you feel. It's impossible to be unhappy when she's here, fully present in every aspect you can think of -- even if she _has_  taken you dress shopping.

"Rosie!" She turns to you, her arms full of material and hangers. "I'm going to go try these on."

Your smile grows exponentially. It hurts a little, but in an utterly good way. You can't remember the last time you were this happy. "Okay."

She starts to move away, walking with a grace that most can only envy. A few paces away, she hesitates and turns back towards you, a frown creasing that perfect brow of hers. "Have you found anything?"

"Uh... Nothing here would fit me." You think you're being realistic, truthful (aren't you?) but the frown deepens.

"Oh, of course. We'll go somewhere else shortly." Then the frown is gone, the smile has returned, and she's practically bouncing as she heads towards the dressing room.

You're left in a too-bright store where everything is worth more than your life and the very air tastes like half-formed facades. A woman, you guess she works there, brushes into you with an armful of hangers. Her arms shift; the hangers spill out of her hold and scatter onto the floor. She levels a steely glare at you, angry words on the tip of her tongue, but you're already on your knees, picking them up.

An ashamed, remorseful smile crosses your face, and you offer a small, "Sorry," as if it could appease her.

This doesn't stop her from laying into you with a vengeance. The words pour forth, bitter and angry, but you notice she doesn't bend to help pick up the remaining hangers and she keeps herself slightly apart from you, as if you might hurt her.

It doesn't take long for the verbal abuse -- a repeated, unoriginal litany of insults that include 'mendicant,' 'clumsy,' 'graceless,' and 'evil,' among others -- to grow old. You rise to your feet, only about half of the hangers picked up. Your chin lifts stubbornly, and before you can consider the potential consequences, you're biting back.

"I seem to remember you're the one who ran into me, a stationary object. I'm sorry if you can't come to terms with the knowledge that your own self-absorbed musings keep you away from a functioning life in a realistic world. You might want to check the definitions of some of those words; I most certainly am not a mendicant, and I've done nothing to make you think I'm evil." You offer the hangers to her, and when her too-perfect face does nothing but glower, you snap, "I think you owe me an apology for colliding with me and lecturing me. I'm a customer; isn't your job to keep me happy?"

When she still doesn't reply, you shake your head. "I'll be speaking to customer service about this. You certainly don't deserve a job here any longer, and I'm sure they'll do anything to keep a paying customer returning."

Tears seem to be welling in her eyes, but you can feel nothing but rage as you bend down to pick up the remaining hangers. Mimicking your mother when she doesn't get quite what she wants, you spin on your heel and stalk off, feeling slightly ridiculous until the girl runs after you and catches your shoulder.

"I -- I'm sorry," she stammers, clearly crying now. Her mascara obviously isn't waterproof, and pity cuts through your heart.

Suddenly, you feel quite disgusted with yourself, and it's all you can do to shove the hangers at her and shake your head. "As am I."

Then you're gone, running towards the signs that say "restroom" because your breakfast seems to be waging a war in your belly and you're not entirely sure you'd like to throw up in a trashcan and garner more attention.

You're not old enough to be yelling at adults like that, you don't think. No one gave you any right to yell at that girl, to make her cry. Some of those words you could barely use in a sentence, but now you're using them to tear people apart?

There's a voice in the back of your mind that says this isn't okay; somewhere, you wonder when you became this screwed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't go where I was expecting it to at all but okay.


	12. Chapter 12

The porcelin of the toilet you're leaning over feels cold to the touch, so at odds with the burning acid that ccompanies your breakfast on its way back up. Tears stream down your face; your body shakes, and you can't tell ifyou're dry heaving or you're sobbing that hard. 

 

It feels as if something important has been ripped from your chest. You can't stand the thought of going back out there, but your mom will notice if you don't return. Still, moving seems like too much of an effort so you remain kneeling on the floor until the automatic flush on the toilet goes off, taking away tears and bile.

 

You straighten a bit hesitatntly, your knees weak, stomach uncertain and face dripping with tears that have yet to stop falling. Over the almost musky scent of cheap air-freshener, the stench of vomit lingers. A shower would be nice at this point, but that's an impossibility, so you stumble to the sink, scrub your hands under warm water, wash some of the tears off your face, and fake a smile. A few deep breaths later, you think you might look okay. (Part of you recognizes that the other kids your age would have their mom there to clean them up, to hold back their hair until they could keep from puking; you are no longer like most other kids.)

 

You wipe the water from your face with a paper towel and return to the mirror. A pale girl looks back at you, violet -- no, straight  _purple --_ eyes wary, maybe even scared. Your hair brushes your shoulders in a way that reminds you of your mother's, a slight curl on the end and precisely the same color. You force a smile, and you think you look a little less lost. 

 

If you don't stare at yourself, you can't tell you were crying. When you smile, you don't look so scared. If nothing else, you have to look happy for your mom.

 

You don't feel quite ready to rejoin the world at large, but you feel you've spent too much time locked away as it is. Your mother must be worried about you by this time.

 

You take a  deep breath and pull the door open.

 

You keep a smile on your face and your chin lifts ever so slightly as you walk through the store. You aren't sure where you learned it, but you sort of recognize it as something your mother does when she's refusing to back down from an argument. Part of you had hoped that you would find her tearing the building apart at the seams, searching for you, but you should have known better. She's in front of the dressing room, twirling and curtseying for a small crowd who seem enchanted by her smile and charisma.

 

You stand off to the side awkwardly, unwilling to walk up to her and feeling a bit like you don't belong at her side, but your mother spots you and calls out with such delight that you can't help but smile a little brighter. She just didn't realize you were gone at all. She wasn't trying to be neglectful.

 

(Part of you wonders why you're rationalizing her behavior.)

 

She rushes towards you, all barely restrained energy and joy. "Isn't it beautiful?"

 

You look at the dress and smile, because you guess it is pretty but it looks rather uncomfortably heavy. If she notices your hesitation, she must not care because she presses on.

 

"It's perfect! We'll buy it, and then we'll go find you one. Doesn't that sound lovely?"

 

"Sure." You aren't quite sure what else to say, because you know she doesn't want to hear that you threw up and she doesn't want you to say that you'd much rather be at home than shopping, even if the latter option does mean that you get to spend more time with her. If you keep her happy, maybe you might get a fairytale-style happy ending where she doesn't go back to drinking as soon as this thing is all over. _  
_

 

She flashes you a brilliant grin and disappears back into the dressing room.

 

The smile slowly fades from your face. You aren't quite sure when life began to require you to pretend this much.


	13. Chapter 13

You collapse into bed after midnight, belly full for the first time in awhile, a new dress in your closet, and a letter to John half-penned on your dresser. You think you'll finish it and get it sent tomorrow, though you aren't entirely sure when you'll next be able to get away from your mom and to the post office. One thing you miss is the freedom that came with your mother being too inebriated to do much in the parental responsibilities department.

Even though you could hardly keep your eyes open only a handful of minutes prior, now that you're actually in bed sleep is the farthest thing from your mind. For awhile, you watch the shadows on the ceiling, your only company the sounds of the house that seems to have come alive once more now that your mother has pulled herself out of the bottle.

It's a bit ironic, you think. You spent all that time waiting for her to sober up, but now that she has you're not any happier than you were before. Maybe it'll get better in a week or a month if she hasn't succumbed to her alcoholism again, but part of you thinks the uncertain wariness that keeps you from being truly happy about this isn't something that'll go away too easily.

After all, you know it's far too much to hope that she'll stay like this for any amount of time.

When the clock on your nightstand blinks back 2:34, you resign yourself to a sleepless night. You roll out of bed and softly pad over to your dresser, easily avoiding the shadowy furniture that looms at you. The letter and your pencil are exactly where you left them, and the flashlight you keep buried in the back of your top drawer has been retrieved so often without light that you've no problem withdrawing it from the folds of your shirts.

You settle back onto your bed, crossing your legs and slipping a piece of cardboard under the letter so you can write. The flashlight proves to be difficult to operate if you want to write, and after attempting to hold it in your left hand as your right moves the pen across the paper, you realize your best bet is to use your chin to hold it against your chest. The light is mostly aimed in the wrong direction, but there's enough to see by and you decide that it'll work.

The graphite sparkles in the dim light, or maybe that's just your tired eyes playing tricks on you. The languid pace at which you started writing now seems too deliberate, and with each word you feel a little lighter, a little more tired. Your writing speeds up, letters combining to make words and words into sentences quickly, fervently. Though you're exhausted, you're stubbornly determined to finish this letter now that you've started.

You aren't sure how it happened, or when, but writing to John makes it feel as if things will work out. You don't notice as your handwriting shifts from your typical neat penmanship to a half-asleep scrawl, and by the time you sign your name, your writing is something rather atrocious. With sleep-heavy fingers, you fold the letter and lean over to pull the box of envelopes out from under your bed. Carefully, you tuck the letter into an envelope to be addressed and sent away tomorrow.

You drift into sleep the moment you lean back onto the bed, pencil still in your hand and the letter near your fingertips.

~~~

The sun breaking through the gap in the curtains and falling on your bed wakes you late in the morning. The clock reads 11:02, and for a long drowsy moment you can't comprehend why you were using a piece of cardboard as a pillow or why there's a pencil on the floor and an envelope in your hand. When your brain finally blinks online, you decide that you honestly don't want to reread what you wrote and instead seal the envelope.

You're just leaning over the side of the bed, your fingers searching for the pencil on the floor, when your mother knocks twice and enters the room without waiting for permission. Startled, you roll back onto the bed, slipping the letter under your pillow with a fluid, unconscious motion that you can only pray she didn't notice. The last thing you need is for her to know about the letters, about the food. It might not be relevant just now, but you are certain that it would only come back to bite you later if she found out.

"Hey, Rosie." She smiles at you, the grin that has men falling all over her, the one people used to tell you that you'd have one day.

"Good morning," you reply, and your voice is rough with sleep. You smile, not just because it's expected, but because this way she doesn't need to know you've been awake for longer than a few seconds.

"I made you breakfast! Don't you think it's about time to get out of bed?" She bounces on the balls of her feet, enthusiastic and ready for the day to start. You smile a little wider, and a small laugh escapes your throat. She's contagious, you think, and that's why people love her. She's energy and determination, everything you'll never be.

"Yeah, I was just about to get up." You roll out of bed, leaving the letter secreted away under your pillow.

Your mother flashes you a giant smile and turns to lead the way to the kitchen. You follow, quietly wishing you could somehow keep her like this forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to sound absolutely ridiculous given my oh-so-predictable updating schedule, but this is (probably) going on an official hiatus for the next two to three weeks. Updates will resume on a hopefully more regular schedule once school gets out. (I really have no excuse for my inability to update in a reasonable amount of time. Sorry, guys.)


	14. Chapter 14

Breakfast is a simple but comfortable affair, and then the day really starts, with professional stylists and manicures and all sorts of things that you don't think you need but your mother won't let you go without for this event. You keep a smile on your face, and sometimes it's genuine. The entire time you're committing your mother's expressions and inflections to memory. You don't know when the idea appeared, but something tells you that things will dissolve again soon enough.

It seems almost no time has passed before you're sitting next to your mom in the back of some fancy limo and she's smiling and beautiful, a giant sparkle against dark upholstery. You know that in a week you won't remember what her dress looked like. No, what matters is the way her eyes shine and she smiles so easily, so honestly.

She looks comfortable all dressed up and pretty as she leans forward. "So, Rosie. What's that big book you've been reading about?"

There's not point in lying. "Psychology."

The slow smile that spreads across her face like sweet honey warms your heart. "A science of your own, then."

It never seemed like that to you, but you guess it's true, so you smile back and nod in agreement.

"Tonight's going to be so much fun!"

And just like that, the conversation is away from you. You spend the rest of the car ride relishing her attention as she talks about star charts and predictions. After awhile you can't understand much of what she's saying, but you know how to reply to keep her talking, and it's nice to just sit there and listen to her voice.

All too soon the ride's over, and you're climbing out of the limo and entering an imposing but plain building.

Your immediate conclusion is that you don't like it much. Your mother laughs and babbles, flitting from one cluster of people to another. The chatter of conversation makes you want to wince, with its nearly unfamiliar cadences. Giant air conditioners hum above it all, a low thrumming bass to top everything off. You haven't seen this many people in one enclosed space since school let out and you don't think there have been this many people wanting to talk to you ever.

Adults peer down at you, smiling with teeth that seem too sharp, too white, too fake. Your dress scratches at your abdomen and restricts your breathing just enough to be uncomfortable, but your mother said it was flattering and brought out your eyes. Your hair is curled, your nails painted. Your mother's makeup adorns your face, and while you can't exactly see it, you are still painfully aware of it. You might have felt comfortable in the limo, but now your mother is nowhere near you and you feel like a lost dog.

The whole room makes you want to squirm, and suddenly it hits you: nothing here can be taken at face value.

"Hello! Aren't you just adorable!" someone titters to your left.

You spin to see a woman grinning down at you. She has a slender flute of champagne in her hand, and you can hear in her voice that she's at least a little bit tipsy.

Any happiness you may have felt earlier in the evening drains away. It's not necessary to search for your mother; you know she will be holding a similar glass with alcohol of some sort in it. You feel sick to your stomach. Don't these people know that drinking ruins lives?

"You must be Roxy's daughter," the woman presses on, oblivious to your discomfort. "I worked with her. We were studying the same patch of stars for several weeks."

You force a smile, and before you know it, words are tumbling from your mouth without permission. "Good to see she found a partner who could share in even her more unsavory interests."

The lady grins and bobs her head, oblivious to the blatant insult. "Oh yes! I must admit that Roxy didn't tell me that you were so precocious!"

You really think you might throw up. Vomiting all over this lady's unnecessarily tall heels wouldn't accomplish much other than making your mother want to kill you for being a disgrace. However, you can't think of a way to extricate yourself from the situation with the appropriate decorum that your mother drilled into you on the way here, so you force another smile. A bit haltingly, you say, "I really must, uh, retouch my makeup." It sound pretentious and the words are unfamiliar on your tongue but you're pretty sure it works. "Could you please direct me to the nearest restroom?"

The woman who claims to be your mother's lab partner gives you an understanding smile and points across the room. "Second door from the left, honey. Tell your mom I said hi!"

You smile weakly and it's all you can stand not to run across the room.

That's the second time in as many days. You hope you can get it together and stop feeling sick every time someone looks at you the wrong way.


	15. Chapter 15

The heavy door shuts behind you with hardly a whisper, leaving you in a comforting silence. The room's done up in shades of pale green, and you're a bit surprised; you were half expecting sterile white. You step further in, crossing over to the mirror. Your hands barely tremble as you turn on the water, but you stop before you can splash any on your face, remembering that you're wearing makeup and fairly certain that water and the various powders on your face wouldn't mix.

You bite back a groan and instead cross your arms over the counter and rest your head on them.

"Are you okay?" a soft voice asks.

You jump, bringing your head up and nearly crashing into the dark-haired girl standing next to you. She steps back with a slight gasp.

"Oh! I didn't mean to startle you...."

"It's okay," you breathe, laughing nervously. "I just didn't know there was anyone else in here."

"I'm Jade!" She frowns for a second, as if trying to remember some elusive detail, and then sticks her hand out with a grin.

"I'm Rose," you reply, a bit confused but polite. "Why are you here?"

Jade makes a face that's endearing and almost lost all at the same time. "I've never seen so many people before."

You smile in spite of yourself. "I'm sort of having a bit of the same problem. Why are you here?"

"My grandpa brought me here. He said it was important." She shrugs like it's normal, like she does things like this all the time.

"My mom brought me here," you tell her, trying to feign the same nonchalance.

Jade nods solemnly and abruptly changes the subject. "I think I'm going to spend the rest of the night in here." The end of her sentence turns up slightly, not as much a question so much as an invitation.

Something draws you towards her, and maybe it's just because you're starting to miss interacting with people your own age. You know that you should politely excuse yourself and leave, but your mom isn't going to miss you for several more hours and the thought of staying here with Jade is far more appealing than rejoining the land of fake smiles and forced interaction.

You look at her, studying her face, noting almost absently how it's free from makeup, and the hopeful smile on her lips.

There was really only one answer you could ever have ended up saying, and it rolls easily off your tongue: "I think I will too."

She grins then, revealing imperfect teeth. You grin back, feeling younger than you have in awhile.

"Let's sit!" She turns and hops up onto the counter, settling between two of the sinks. You follow suit, your movements slightly hindered by the material of your dress, but you manage without ripping anything.

And so the night passes. She talks and you talk, sharing stories and experiences. You hear about her dog, and you share about how you had a cat once, even if it really was sort of the neighbor's cat in reality regardless of its erstwhile residence in your yard. You talk and talk, passing time with smiles and a seemingly endless supply of Ritz crackers and PB&J sandwiches that Jade keeps in a bag stashed under the sinks.

She gets jelly on her dress, and you accidentally smear peanut butter on yours. She laughs, and you can't help but laugh too. Outside the bathroom there are things you don't understand and an inevitable descent back into a time of faring for yourself, but you and her are safe here.

~

It's late when someone finally comes looking for you. The door swings open and your mom comes in, smiling widely. "Jade, your grandpa's -- Rose, there you are!"

You jump and try not to look guilty. Inexplicably, you feel as though you've been caught elbow-deep in the metaphorical cookie jar, and not just because there are crumbs all over your dress and a container of crackers is open on the sliver of counter in front of the sink that separates you and Jade.

Your mom turns to Jade, and says, "Your grandpa is ready to leave when you are." Then she smiles at you and says, "I'll be waiting with Jade's grandpa. I'll see you in a couple minutes."

"Okay," you agree easily, a fake smile coming nearly without effort, and she leaves. The door shuts slowly but surely, and once it's firmly back in its frame you find yourself shaking, trembling for no reason. Jade just slips off the counter and tugs at your wrists until you let yourself fall back to the ground. She wraps her arms around you, pulling you close and petting your hair until your breathing evens back out and you aren't mimicking a leaf caught in a tornado.

"She's drunk again." There's not a doubt in your mind about this. It had been something in her eyes, or the way she meticulously picked her way around syllables when she spoke. Maybe tonight she had seemed a little different than usual, but you knew that come tomorrow she wouldn't be bright and cheerful from interacting with too many people.

Jade doesn't say anything, just hugs you tighter.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry," you suddenly say, pulling away. "I hardly know you and here I am practically breaking down --"

Jade tilts her head, and you cut off.

"We're friends, though," she says simply, "and this is what friends do for each other." She smiles at you, and you absolutely cannot comprehend how you somehow became friends with this girl over a course of a few hours.

You return her smile, but it's shaky and uncertain. She pokes your arm, and you giggle, and everything is okay again.

Jade gathers her things and scribbles an address on the back of a piece of paper. "Letters probably take a long time to get to me, but..."

You rip a part of the paper off and write your own address on it. She carefully folds it and places it in her bag, and you fold hers and clutch it tightly in your palm.

She grins at you, and as you exit the bathroom together, she slips her hand into yours.


	16. Chapter 16

School starts in September, and with it comes the revelation that you no longer care much for people your age. It doesn't take long for you to realize that your peers are vapid and ignorant; you think most couldn't feed themselves for longer than a week without a microwave.

On the first day, you realize you've forgotten to track down school supplies and end up borrowing a pencil and paper from the teacher. You spend that afternoon compiling supplies; luckily there's enough left over in the box underneath your bed that you don't have to go steal some money and buy new things. You go to sleep feeling rather accomplished for one day.

On the second day, you're stuck sitting next to a girl that looks particularly dimwitted. She chatters incessantly to the girl across the row before abruptly turning to you and saying, "I'm Alice. Who are you?"

You glance up, fighting back the irritated scowl that wants to display itself. "I go by the moniker Rose Lalonde. I'm enchanted to make your splendid acquaintance, certainly, but I really am occupied with other forms of entertainment that don't involve glorified small talk." You glance down at the books on your desk, the damaged psychology book and the biggest dictionary you could find.

Over the course of the summer, your vocabulary has increased exponentially. It's getting easy to hide behind big words.

Your reply is met with a shocked expression. Alice's mouth opens and then closes as if she doesn't know where to start in replying to you. You decide to cut off the obvious question before it can be voiced.

"Here's a dictionary, if you need to look up some of the words. I'm done with it for the moment." You shove the dictionary over and return to your psychology book that certainly is not for beginners. Maybe it would be easier to just play along with cheap laughs and forced smiles, but you discovered early on the first day that you didn't really have the patience or the skills to interact with people anymore. It doesn't upset you, not really, not as much as it should.

Alice tries to look up something and then pushes it back, her expression utterly baffled. You fight a small smile and continue struggling to decipher your book.

Later in the day, you end up talking to a boy who had his nose buried in a book. You don't try to make yourself look approachable but when he wanders in your direction you manage to refrain from shoving him away with a slew of words he would undoutedly have trouble interpreting. You had thought that school would be a nice change of pace after your summer but you were so very, very wrong.

He starts off the conversation with a mumbled, "Hello," that is accompanied by an uncomfortable fidget.

You arch an eyebrow. "Hello." You hesitate, and then decide he isn't going to go away so you add, "What's your name?"

"Uh, Justin Anthony. You?"

"Rose Lalonde." You glance back down at your book, but he presses on.

"Nice to meet you. That's an interesting looking book you've got there."

"Psychology," you reply, trying to sound disinterested enough to cut him off. It's almost lunch. You just need to keep your head down and get through the next half hour and then you can have more food than you've seen in several months.

"Oh." He nods, looking so out of his element. "Do you like to read fiction books?"

You hesitate, not sure you can remember the last time you worked on reading anything that wasn't this tome. "I suppose I do," you reply after a brief pause, "though I can't remember the last time I read one."

He nods, and it's starting to seem like that's his default response to pretty much everything. "That's cool."

You give him a pointed look. "Listen, Justin. If you want to have an actual conversation, sure. If not, you have your own desk you can go to."

Justin doesn't squirm, and you have to give him that. "Teacher said to socialize."

"'Teacher' doesn't know me," you throw back.

A lopsided grin spreads across his face. "Touche. You just seem like the most intelligent person in the room."

You set down your book, ready to test him. If he can't keep up with verbal swordplay, you aren't interested.

~~~

Half an hour later, you walk to lunch by yourself, disappointed that Justin wasn't as intelligent as he seemed at first glance.

There are familiar faces in the lunchroom, but they're few and far between. A handful of people approach you, and you even remember their names, but it's not too long before even the most determined walk away. You've changed over the summer, and that much is clear. Few people want to deal with you, and you guess that's okay.

You've always been a bit of a loner, but now you've resigned yourself to never having friends other than John and Jade. That's not too upsetting, you suppose, but things might be easier if you had a friend in school you could talk to.

Then again, you're almost a quarter of the way through the red-stained pages of your book, and you think you're growing ever closer to the secret of bringing your mom back for good.


	17. Chapter 17

One morning, mid-way through October, you wake up and find sausage and eggs cooling on the table next to a note that reads,

_Off on business. I'll be back in two days. Food's in the fridge, breakfast is here._

You realize that you don't know a whole lot about what she does for a living. Something with research and stars, something that can drag her away for a couple days without much notice.

School passes normally, until afternoon recess. Your teacher, Ms. Jones, smiles and asks if you'll stay behind for a few minutes to talk to her, and you agree readily. It's not like you can say no.

The other kids file out the door, and soon enough you're left alone with the teacher. A light breeze blows in from the windows that have been cracked open. Ms. Jones pulls the chair out from the desk next to you and sits down, looking silly in the chair that was made for people under five feet tall.

"So, Rose," she starts, as if trying to find some fancy segue into what she wants to say.

You smile at her a little because you know it's what she wants. "Yes?"

"I've noticed that you're very smart for your age. You've scored higher than average on the standardized testing we did three weeks ago, and that book you're always reading seems like it's a very high reading level. I'm surprised you haven't been placed in more advanced classes."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. She clearly has a point she's trying to make, and you don't want to sit here and listen to empty compliments meant to lessen the blow of the matter that's kept you inside. "But?"

Ms. Jones seems a bit taken aback at your blunt response. "Well, er, I've noticed that you don't seem to interact much with your classmates and I was wondering if there was perhaps something going on at home that's worrying you?"

The note your mother left on the table this morning is in your pocket, and suddenly you can almost feel it resting heavily against your leg. You sigh heavily. "Please, don't insult me."

A frown creases her forehead. "What?"

"Do you honestly want me to tell you what's going on at home? Or do you want me to tell you that my mother has an opening in her schedule for next week immediately after school so you can discuss my introverted tendencies?"

"Rose," she says gently, "I just wanted to know if there was anything you'd like to talk about."

It's a challenge not to roll your eyes or glare, but you know that you need to seem reasonable. "My home life is perfectly fine. My interactions with my mother might occasionally border on dysfunctional, but that isn't unusual for any sort of relationship, now is it?"

"Okay." Your teacher smiles suddenly, bright and fake. "So you're sure everything is okay?"

You think about how you and your mom haven't fought since school started, how she has groceries delivered every few weeks, how even if she didn't you still have school meals that you could eat. Things could be a lot worse. "I'm sure. Things are very good at home right now, actually."

You return her fake smile, flashing teeth to soothe Ms. Jones' fears. It feels more like a grimace.

"Alrighty! Well you can go out to recess now."

You nod stiffly and leave the book on your desk, knowing it's what she secretly wants. This way it looks like you'll maybe be socializing and not reading like you have been since school started.

~

You find yourself heading directly to the swings. You like swinging, the way it feels as you pump your legs to bring yourself higher and higher into the air. Cool wind bites at your face. The best part, you decide, is that people don't try to interact with you when you're swinging.

Eventually you start to come back down. You don't drag your feet against the gravel, but you stop moving your body to keep the swing in motion. Bit by bit you slow. You're almost stopped, but still moving a decent bit when the girl comes and sits on the swing next to you.

You ignore her gaze studiously until she asks rather bluntly, "What's wrong with your face?"

"What?" You turn towards her sharply, confused.

"You've got a weird look. Like you're tryin' to look happy when you're not."

You realize that the poorly made up fake smile is still on your face and you replace it with a scowl. "It's none of your business what I do with my face."

The girl shrugs. "Maybe not. But if you're gonna try and pretend to be somethin' you're not you might as well do it right. See?"

She grins at you, big and joyful, and for a moment she looks genuinely happy before she goes back to staring at you like she's seen some things people shouldn't have to see.

"Maybe I'm not trying to look happy," you counter weakly.

She gives you a look that could cut steel. "All I'm sayin' is that you should do it the right way and not look like you're tryin' not to cry or kill a bitch."

You jump a little, startled at the way she spoke. You knew that you could use words like that, but you hadn't really expected to hear this girl say 'bitch' out loud at school. Try as you might, you can't think of a response, so silence sort of stretches between you. Idly, you push yourself back and forth on the swing, one foot planted firmly on the ground. She follows suit, pushing off the ground and dragging her feet back down in little aborted attempts to get going.

Finally, she snorts. "Did I make you speechless?"

"Why are you talking to me?" you retort, fast and quick before your mind can catch up, before you keep your mouth shut any longer.

"Because maybe I'm lookin' for a person to talk to who's messed up like me."

"Perhaps you should consider the very real possibility that I would rather pass idle time with people who possess an intellect similar to the level of my own, who would be able to discuss my interests without needing to break out a thesaurus every time I say a new word that's thousands of miles ahead of what they can comprehend easily."

She laughs, and you glance over with a confused look plastered all over your face. She laughs harder, doubled over, arms hooked around the chains of the swing so she won't fall out.

You scowl, realizing you're being laughed at.

When she sits back up, there are tears in her eyes. She's still giggling as she chokes out, "And maybe you should contemplate the possibility that you simply want a friend who can tell you that you're absolutely ridiculous when you hide behind fancy words and a big intelligence."

You look at her, really seeing her for the first time since she sat down. She's nothing special, you think, with jeans that are a couple inches too short and a stained shirt that's a couple sizes too big. Her hair's plain brown and choppy, obviously cut herself with dull scissors. She could be anyone, but she's the first person you've met here who'll take one look at you and tell you that you're hiding yourself from people.

"You're in fourth grade?" you ask.

"Mr. Kirkland's class," she replies, and you nod.

The bell rings, sharp and tinny. Across the playground kids drop what they're doing and wander at varying speeds towards the sidewalk to line up.

The girl slips off the swing and starts for one of the lines forming at the other end of the concrete. "See ya tomorrow!" she throws over her shoulder.

You smile. The thought of seeing her tomorrows is oddly appealing.

You're over halfway done with your psychology book. A little time spent with actual humans isn't going to hurt its feelings.


	18. Chapter 18

You push yourself idly on the swings, listening to the typical chorus of your classmates playing. The swing squeaks slightly, and leaves blow by your feet. The light sweater you're wearing takes just the bite off of the cold air. A duty teacher leans against a tree across from you, and you realize somewhat vaguely that you're being watched. The realization isn't really a hard one to swallow, so you grin and look around like it's no big deal and push yourself into the air.

Around you, people play and laugh and sound happy. You wait, stubbornly determined to look anything but suspicious or downright miserable. The girl said she'd meet you, so of course she will. It's just a matter of waiting.

Minutes tick by. A few fat drops of rain fall, splattering over the ground. The bell rings to mark the end of recess, and the plastic grin you've been wearing for fifteen minutes solidifies into something more permanent.

For the rest of the day, your interactions are honey-sweet, all bright smiles and too much sunshine. That's what your mother does: when her day has gone to shit, she smiles wider and laughs louder. You slip into her habits almost as easily as if they were your own, and that doesn't bother you, not in the slightest.

You're laughing with some girl who sits halfway across the room from you when the final bell rings. When you pass the teacher going out the door, she smiles at you and looks inordinately proud, as if she had managed to fix you somehow.

On the bus ride home, you read your book, keeping to yourself, but when the person behind you taps your shoulder you turn with a smile. You realize something then: people like it when you smile. They like the way you interact when you look happy, even if you're the farthest thing from it in reality.

You avoid the puddles in the road almost religiously as you walk home from the bus stop, trying to pretend that it hadn't rained while you were inside having class. Halfway home, it starts sprinkling, and by the time you're walking through your front door your hair is dripping.

There's a funny emptiness in your chest, and you're certain it would be better if you could cry, if you could feel _something_  other than the blankness that threatens to consume you. Blankly, you shuck your shoes by the door, drop your backpack on the couch and go into your room to change.

That night, you lay in bed, watching the shadows dance across the ceiling. A tear finally falls, tracing a damp path down your cheek. You don't even know her name, but she didn't show up at the swings and you feel betrayed.

You should have known better than to think someone would stick around in real life.


	19. Chapter 19

The next afternoon's recess finds you sitting in the swing, your arms wrapped around the chains, your hands clutching the open pages of the book. You refuse to waste another recess like you did yesterday, but some stubborn hope keeps you tethered to the swings.

When someone sits down next to you, you don't look up until a voice says, "Hi."

You turn your head, and there she is. She grins at you, and it's almost easy to ignore the bruise that darkens her cheekbone, or the way her right arm is in a new cast.

"Don't say it," she practically snarls, turning away so you can't say the bruise. "I fell."

"Yeah, right." You snort. "Did you spend all of yesterday falling, then?"

She turns to face you abruptly. "You could say that." She scowls, an ugly expression that's nothing like the grin she flashed moments earlier.

You close the psychology book and cradle it against your chest, looking off somewhere in the distance. "Are you okay?"

You see her shrug out of the corner of your eye. "My arm's in a cast, innit?"

Something in her tone warns you off, so you don't push. Instead, you say, "I missed you yesterday."

She snorts. "Yeah, sure. You missed me while you were here having buckets of fun and I was getting --" She cuts off, shakes her head, and then finishes, "While I was falling."

"Repeatedly?" You can't resist the snark, even though you know you should be acting kinder.

For awhile, she doesn't reply, and you turn your head to look at her. She rolls her eyes and then shoves herself sideways, catching onto the chain of your swing with her good arm. You catch the chain of her swing, drawing her closer. She leans forward, glaring up into your eyes.

"Listen, we both know that I didn't break my arm or get this shiner by falling. But I ain't supposed to tell nobody, got it? Things'll be worse if I do."

She lets go and her swing falls back into position. She stops any other motion with her feet and sits there broodingly.

You don't know what to say, so you just sort of nod to yourself and sit there.

Recess is almost over when she says, "Whatcha reading?"

"Psychology."

"What's that?"

A lot of answers rise to your tongue, but you don't know which one to say. You open your mouth, and the words that come out aren't the most precise. "I was hoping to find out why my mom drinks so much. Maybe then I can make her better."

The girl looks at you, and you force yourself to hold her gaze even though it feels like she's going through all your secrets and cataloging them one by one.

"Isn't a reason, probably," she finally tells you. "No way for you to fix it either."

You narrow your eyes, trying to make sense of her words. When the obvious clicks into place, that she's telling you to leave your mother alone and not try to understand, you shake your head.

"That does not give me permission to abandon all hope and leave my mother to her own alcoholic devices. I refuse to give up on her at the behest of some stranger whose name I don't even know." The words come out diamond-hard and cold.

The corners of her eyes crinkle in a tiny squint and her forehead furrows in a minute frown. They're minuscule expressions, and you wouldn't have noticed if you weren't staring at her as stubbornly as you can.

When she replies, it's preceded by a short, almost nervous laugh. "Sarah."

"What?"

"That's my name. I'm Sarah."

"Oh. I'm Rose." Without thinking you stick a hand out, and she takes it awkwardly with her left hand.

"Formal, aren't we?" Her tone has venom, but she's smiling a little and it looks genuine to you. It's not bright and happy and there's still a distinctly sad look in her eyes, but it's more honest than the grins she's showed you before.

You shrug. "Blame my mom."

She snorts a little laugh, and you smile a bit in return. Silence overtakes you, but it's comfortable.

When the bell rings, you're sad to go. She walks away without a backwards glance like it's nothing, so you pretend it doesn't bother you.

In the months since you met John, or since Jade, you've forgotten what it's like to have a friend you can see in person.

 

~~

  
The house is as empty as you left it when you return home, and you try not to be disappointed. It's likely your mom booked a late flight back anyway. Still, you feel a brief twinge of something resembling sadness.

The evening passes uncomfortably. You finish your homework and when the silence becomes too much you reach for a piece of paper and write a letter to John.

_Dear John --_

_Mom left a couple days ago, said she'd be back. She was supposed to be back today. She's not. I know she'll come home and all, but it's lonely here. It's a big house, and I know I'm usually on my own in it anyway inasmuch as my mother is typically entertaining herself with liquor on the couch, but it's oddly disquieting to be the only breathing person in the house._

_In her usual manner, I'm sure she booked a late flight back. I'm not worried, exactly, but there's this niggling paranoia that urges me to leave the house. The quiet is defeaning. I'm sure you've heard that particular saying before, but have you ever been in a situation to understand it? I didn't know that it could echo, that it could be a noise in and of itself. I'm not sure what to make of this, and writing this letter isn't helping as much as I hoped it would._

_I met a girl. She's... intriguing. Her name's Sarah, and I think she might be in a position a tad similar to my own, though I cannot say anything for certain. She fakes a smile better than my mother, and that's saying something._

_My teacher is worried about me; I believe she may have already checked off the "Doesn't play nicely with others" box on my permanent record, if there is such a box to be checked off. I'm sure my mother will get an earful when (or rather, if) she attends parent teacher conferences. Speaking of, those are at the end of the month, and I'm a bit nervous. It's an odd feeling, but I've never been in quite this position before. She's only been this... alcoholic since the end of last year, so these things have never quite posed the same nigh-inscrutable issue they do now. I should know better than to worry, but it's hard to dismiss such thoughts._

_My mother, in all technicality, should be capable of caring for herself. However, seeing how she cannot take care of me and often drinks until she passes out, I doubt that assumption is entirely accurate._

_I'm loathe to admit it, but that's the problem today: I'm worried she won't come home._

You lift your pencil and stop, staring at the words. It's true, though you hadn't quite realized it until now. Rationally, you know she doesn't drink when she travels. Not excessively, anyway. But that niggling fear remains, and you can't stand the silence anymore.

You scribble your name at the bottom of the letter with a quick farewell and scrawl the date in the top corner. The precise folds come easily to you, and there's an envelope in your folder. You write down his address in the middle and your own in the corner; you carefully apply the stamp. You shove your shoes on and walk out the door, ready to not come home until the sun has set and it's not feasible for you to stay out longer.

The psychology book is left behind on the table. You assure yourself it's because your thoughts won't sit still long enough for you to give it the proper amount of focus, but a nagging voice in the back of your head tells you that you left it behind because Sarah was right, because you can't possibly make anything better for your mother just from reading some stupid book.

You can't let yourself believe that's the truth. You  _can't._


	20. Chapter 20

Your mom isn't home when you wake up the next morning. You don't know what you should feel. You can't call anyone, you can't stay with anyone. You're left with an empty house that bothers you more than you think it should. The best you can do is eat some breakfast and try not to think too much as you rush through your morning routine and exit the house as soon as you can.

You spend most of the day alternating between reading and working. You speed through your assignments, determined to just get this book done and finished already. It feels a little hopeless, just a little, but you do your best to ignore that feeling. Reading about this has to help somehow, doesn't it? Besides, you can't just quit; you've made it so far through the book already.

Recess finds you turning pages like the book is the most fascinating thing you've ever read. When Sarah inevitably sits down next to you, you don't glance up. You're almost done, almost done. Only some number of pages left, you could finish it this week if you try hard.

"Still reading that book?" Sarah asks when you don't acknowledge her.

"It'll help," you mumble. "I'll know how to make it better."

Sarah sighs. "Rose -- that's your name, innit? Come on, look at me."

Reluctantly, you drag your head out of the book and look at her. "What? I'm kinda busy here..."

"Is this about the thing I said yesterday? About how it won't help?"

"No."

She raises her eyebrows like she doesn't believe that in the slightest. "Uh huh."

"It'll help!" you insist.

Sarah sighs, and for a moment she looks like she has the whole world resting on her shoulders. She reaches out to take the book from your hands, and you try to tug it away until she laughs.

"I ain't gonna hurt it."

You glare but let her take it. You watch as she flips through the pages gently, her motions hindered by the cast on her arm. Something in her expression seems almost painfully nostalgic.

"You know," she says, "maybe it's better."

"What?"

"Y'know. This. The book, the reading. The search for a cure." She shrugs like it doesn't matter to her and hands the book back to you. Something in her position makes the sleeve of her sweater rise up, and you're startled to see bruises on her wrist. You've never seen anything quite like them, but it doesn't take a genius to guess that they're from someone grabbing her arm.

She withdraws quickly, and you have to fumble to catch the book. Her movement is casual as she pulls her sleeve back down, but you know she knows you saw.

You don't know what to say, so you keep your mouth shut. It only takes a moment before she looks restless, before she's squirming against the seat of the swing.

"It's nothing!" she exclaims, unprompted. "It's not a big deal."

"It never is," you reply, because you think it's a little true. It isn't a big deal when there's no food in the house, because you can manage for yourself. It isn't a big deal when Sarah's lying about brusies and broken bones, because she can get through it. It's all the same problem, really. Nothing too different in it.

The shrieks of your peers playing and the murmur of the surrounding conversations washes over the two of you.

Then, you say, "I wish I could help. I wish I knew what to say. I wish I could make it all better."

You don't know if you're referring to your mom, or to Sarah, or to something else.

When she replies, her voice is small. "Me too."

You don't talk for the rest of recess, and instead just push yourself back and forth on the swing.

The bell rings, and it seems like the last thing Sarah wants to do is get off the swings.

"Wanna come over tonight?" you ask suddenly, seeing the way her face says "I'm perfectly fine" even though her posture screams defeat. You remember the empty house, how your mom's not there, how you can't stand another day of that silence.

Sarah smiles and then slips off the swing like it's the easiest thing in the world. She looks okay, perfectly fine as she replies, "That would be wonderful. I'll meet you by the front doors?"

You nod once, and she laughs like she's been waiting for a reason to make a happy sound like that all day. You grin, and keep grinning on your way back to class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late; there was a storm yesterday and the internet was being rather unreliable. 
> 
> I may not update next Sunday or the Sunday after that; I'm going to go visit family and the place I'm staying isn't going to have internet. We'll see. So have these chapters and I may update one more time before I leave on Thursday.


	21. Chapter 21

Sarah's waiting for you by the time you make it out the front doors. She's leaning against one of the big pillars in front, grinning like a fool. You grin back.

"I ride bus L. The third stop."

Sarah nods like she knew this all along and leads the way to the bus, her steps light and bouncy.

The ride home is fast, filled with inane conversation that seems infinitely important. You know you won't remember most of it, if any, and Sarah surely understands that herself. The words aren't really what matter, you decide, but the friendship.

Really, it isn't until you're walking home from the bus stop with Sarah by your side and your house in sight that it crosses your mind that your mom might actually be home. You frown, and Sarah notices.

"What?"

You shrug. "Nothing. My mom won't be home so it's not like it's gonna matter."

"Okay." Sarah smiles, but you know it's fake and the rest of the walk home is subdued.

Leaves crunch under your feet as you walk up to your front door, and you realize that you should probably start raking them up at some point soon before your mother points it out, or worse, hires someone to do it. You steadfastly ignore the voice in your head that points out her car isn't in the drive.

"So, this is it, I guess," you tell Sarah as you turn the key in the lock. "It's not much but..."

The light on the answering machine blinks red, catching your eye as you open the door. You dwindles off mid-sentence, stopping half over the thresh hold of your house.

"Is... is something wrong?"

You shake your head. Nothing's wrong, except the house is devoid of your mother and she couldn't manage to do anything but call.

"Not really. Just... come on in." You walk over to the answering machine, leaving the door open behind you. You think you hear Sarah shut it, but you aren't sure and it doesn't really matter that much anyway.

You press the play button on the answering machine, and your mother's voice, filtered by phone lines and hundreds of miles, fills the air.

"Hey, Rosie. Things came up and I need to stay behind for another couple days. I'll be back soon, so don't worry. Bye, honey!"

You blink at the answering machine.

There was background noise in the recording, clinks of glasses and the rumble of conversation. It wasn't an airport she was in, or a hotel. You haven't been on one of those late night trips with her that start with 'just water, thank you' for a couple years, but you remember what a bar sounds like. No, it's not a hotel or an airport, because when she has people around your mother is a social drinker, and her voice had that edge to it that you only hear when she's walking that thin line between "sober" and "tipsy" after a few drinks.

Business didn't come up, because your mother doesn't go out for drinks when it's business. When it's business, she can tell you how long it's going to be before she's back, down to the date and not a vague "couple days."

She's staying behind because someone asked her to, because someone convinced her it was a good idea. She's staying behind because you are a secondary concern, deserving of little more than a phone call that came in when she knew you would still be in school.

The house is big and quiet, made for more than two people. But sometimes it feels like it can only hold your mother and you. And sometimes it feels like two isn't enough, because when you turn to seek out Sarah it feels like your footsteps echo against the floor.

"Big house," Sarah says, echoing your thoughts when you finally spot her on the couch. "Must get lonely."

You won't sleep tonight. After Sarah leaves, you'll leave too, and you won't come back.

You smile a little, like it's not a big deal. "A little. Sometimes it's peaceful..."

There isn't a good way to end that sentence, so you cough a little and turn away.

"Want something to eat?" You're already walking towards the kitchen as you say it, and you don't turn back towards her. You don't want her to see the tears that are pricking at your eyes. You don't want to admit that you miss your mom as much as you do, that she's only been gone for a couple days, that she's too drunk to care most nights and abusive when she isn't drunk enough.

"Yeah, sure." Sarah's voice is solemn, and you know she understands without you saying any of it, but that hurts too, because you don't want her to know.

"Kay."

You flee to the kitchen and bite back all emotion as you stare into the fridge.

It's not a big deal that your mom won't be home tonight or the next. She'll have to return eventually. Probably.

~~~

The sun's been down for hours before you realize that Sarah probably ought to have gone home ages ago. There's homework spread out in front of you, and a platter of junk food on the coffee table. Sarah's frowning over a word problem, and you're nearly done with your spooky story assignment. The bare minimum of lights are on, making the air seem oddly golden, homey in a way. It's been nice, and the thought of asking her if she should leave makes you remember how empty the house is going to seem once it's just you.

"It's nearly eight," you say finally.

Sarah jumps and shoots a glare towards the clock. "I guess it is, innit."

"Should you... go home?" You push your paper and the textbook you've been writing on off your lap and raise the pencil to your lips, nibbling gently on the eraser. "I mean, won't someone miss you?"

"Not really." Sarah laughs bitterly. "I mean, well. Would your mom miss you if you didn't come home one night?"

You know what she means. "Okay."

You pick the textbook back up and begin rereading over what you have. You've just put the pencil back to the paper when she breaks the silence.

"Do I have to go home? I don't really want to. It's nice, being somewhere else."

"If your parents won't care, and my mom won't notice, I don't see why you shouldn't spend the night." You smile shyly, and then add, "Besides, you don't want to be walking home in the dark like this, if you can walk home."

Sarah nods. "Of course. Lots of scary things in the dark."

You snort. "We're quite absurd, you know that?"

She grins. "Fancy, ain't ya?"

And just like that she's spending the night and things seem like they'll be okay for another day.


	22. Chapter 22

The next morning, Sarah wakes you by throwing a pillow at your face. You giggle and throw it back, and after that Sarah spends the night more often than not. Her clothes move into your room bit by bit until you rearrange your dresser so she can have a few drawers. She still goes home a few times a week, but mostly the two of you sleep squished into your twin bed.

Your mom comes home four days after the first night, her car pulling up after midnight. She makes a lot of noise coming in, enough to wake you up. It's the sort of night where you might stay up wishing things were different, staring at the tiny strip of light that works its way under your door to keep you company. But Sarah's doing her best to steal the covers and when you try and drag some back she slits open one eye and glares at you. You don't feel so alone anymore, so you roll over and go back to sleep even as she grumbles something about more blankets.

Your mom doesn't ask why you're eating more food than usual, or why you're spending a lot of time in your room. To be honest, she probably doesn't notice. You don't mind, though, because having Sarah around is kind of like having that sister you always wanted. You sneak her in through the back door, or through a window on the ground floor, you wrapping your arms around her and pulling until you both collapse on the floor with hands pressed to your mouths to suppress laughter.

Most nights, you stay up together, whispering secrets into the dark. You tell her about John and Jade; she tells you about the places she's lived besides here. On the nights when neither of you can get to sleep, you sneak out and take long walks wearing blankets like capes.

It's happy, and better than anything you can remember in recent times. Days stretch out into forever, and you're convinced this can't end. School is easier (and you don't snap at the people around you as much), and bit by bit you're coming to the end of the psychology book. Sometimes you read it to Sarah, your tongue tripping over some of the longer words. She corrects your pronunciation sometimes, easily like it's no big deal. Here and there she starts bringing books over to your house, well-worn paperbacks with names like "At the Mountain of Madness" and "The Call of Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories." You read them quickly; while they're not necessarily easier reading than your psychology book, they don't make you reach for a dictionary every third word. Instead, it's more like every twenty words.

The week before parent teacher conferences Sarah goes home every night. She misses the next Monday, but you don't think anything of it. You don't see her on Tuesday, and while you're a little worried you figure she was just making up a test.

On Wednesday during conferences, you run into her sitting outside her classroom nervously on a plastic blue chair. She's dwarfed by the too-big jacket she's wearing. She's sitting primly, her back straight and her chin tilted upwards, but she's pale and her hands are clenched together in her lap.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi." She shoots a guilty look towards the classroom door. "You probably shouldn't be here. I mean... yeah. You should go."

Her voice doesn't sound right, not at all. It's too scratchy and rough, too tense. You stand there for a moment, and she glares at you.

"Go away, Rose. You can't stay here."

Her tone is telling you to go away, but you know this girl, and you know that she wants you to stay.

Your mom rounds the corner. "Rose, come on. We're going to be late, and you know how much I hate being late."

"I'll be back," you promise Sarah. "I promise."

She looks a little hopeful, and you wish you could stay, but your mom wraps a hand around your arm and drags you away to go sit in your own blue chair in front of a classroom.

You've been sitting down for only a few minutes when your mom's phone rings. She answers it and starts a conversation. You don't care enough to try and listen; besides, even if you did you wouldn't only hear half of it. So you sit there and worry about Sarah and about parent teacher conferences and how your mom is that kind of half-sober that makes her irritable if you set one foot out of line.

The door opens and a parent goes out, one of your classmates in tow. Your mom smiles at them tightly and mutters some farewell into her phone before slipping it back into her pocket and walking through the door with that impressive stride she uses when she wants to be intimidating. For a moment you think you'll stay there the way you're supposed to, but you have at least ten minutes before your mom comes out.

Your heart pounds against your chest as you get up out of the chair and retrace your steps back to Sarah's classroom. You round the corner, but now Sarah's not alone. There's a man and a woman standing over her. Their words are indistinguishable, but you know that they're yelling at her in whispers for things she doesn't deserve to be berated for.

You go back around the corner, pressing your back to the brick wall. A helpless feeling threatens to overwhelm you, the kind you get when your mom is yelling and screaming about things that are out of your control. Rational thought is commanding you to turn away and go back to your plastic blue chair outside a classroom, but your feet are rooted to the spot. You aren't going to turn around and leave Sarah behind. You've spent too many long afternoons and drowsy nights with her to just act like it's not a big deal.

Because the abuse? It's not a big deal, not in the past tense, because you'll both get through it. In the present tense, when you can stop it, you would much rather take her place if you could.

You don't know what to do, though. You can't tell them to stop because you know it'll make it worse on her eventually. So instead you take a deep breath and walk back into that hallway, walking past her, trying to let her know she's not alone. Her eyes don't meet yours, but you know she saw you.

Your feet carry you around the corner at the end of the hall and you follow more corridors until you're back at your classroom, and then down the next hall and the next and back to Sarah's hall. This time you're convinced you can do something to make everything better, to rescue her. There are angry words tumbling around in your head, but they're scared words too and you don't know how you're going to say them.

You turn the corner, distracted and not paying attention. You run into someone, and look up to apologize before dimly recognizing the man that you assume is Sarah's dad. Instead of an apology, what comes out is, "That girl is better than you know, and you're a damn idiot for not being able to see it." Your eyes lock with his for a moment, and then you're walking straight past like nothing ever happened. You purposely brush against Sarah as you go by, hoping to reassure her somehow. You feel her shaking, but she turns ever so slightly and offers you the slightest smile before you're both separated.

Back at your classroom, your mother is standing in the hallway tapping a foot against the carpeted floor. She looks angry, and when she sees you her eyes narrow.

"Where exactly have _you_ been?" she snaps.

"Bathroom." You're startled at the response, but it's much better than telling her the truth. If she finds out you're lying she'll be furious. It's not like it matters, though, because as far as you can tell she's already furious.

"Did you get lost?" She's snide and cruel, which is unusual. Normally in public you're the picture of a happy family. You make a point of ignoring it and pretending nothing's odd.

"Yeah. Sorry. It won't happen again."

"It'd better not. You're grounded."

You follow in silence behind her as she leads the way out of the school, fast and angry.

~~~

You're locked in your room reading the psychology book when there's a tap on the window. You ignore it, but then there's another, and another. Finally, you set the book down and pull the curtains aside, peering down into the darkness. Another tap comes, and this time you see it's a pebble being thrown at the window. You push it up and lean out; you can just make out Sarah's silhouette below.

"Can I come in?" she calls up.

It's hard to make out the words. You nod and say as loudly as you dare, "The office window. I'll be down in a minute."

"Kay."

You shut the window and ease open your door. You're not supposed to be out of your room until it's time for you to start walking to the bus stop tomorrow, but you're pretty sure your mom is asleep. You should be able to get Sarah in without a problem.

There are a few lights on throughout the house, but they're the "don't kill yourself on the stairs" lights that are always on at night. Your mother is snoring on the couch, but you still make sure to avoid the stairs that creak. You creep through the doors and finally into the office, even though after a certain point you know your mother won't hear you. The walls are thick, but you aren't careless.

The lacy curtains in the office throw shadows onto the floor in the pattern of flowers. Everything is pristine, too clean. Your mother hasn't been in here for awhile. If she had, the papers wouldn't be stacked neatly on the desk, and the laptop would be shut and set to sleep, not open and off. The room is lonely and unwelcoming, almost judgmental as you brush the curtains away and drag the window up. Sarah leans into the room almost immediately, and you help pull her in. This time there is no secretive laughter, no joking around.

She turns and shuts the window, but does not lock it. You do that for her, because the first rule of this is that you must always leave the house exactly as you left it. The curtains fall back into place, and you lead the way up to your room as quickly as you dare.

Sarah locks the door behind her, and you settle onto the bed. The desk lamp is still on, illuminating half the room and leaving the rest to the shadows. Sarah keeps her back to the door, her unbroken arm crossing her torso to hold her other arm. It's the closest she can come to crossing her arms. In the light her face is all angle and shadow, but you don't need a perfect view to know she's upset.

"I don't have much time," she says.

"Okay," you reply.

"I'm running away," she says.

"Okay," you say.

"I won't come back."

"Okay."

She stops talking, so you say, "Where are you going to go?"

"I don't know."

"Who will you stay with?"

"I don't know." Her voice quivers, and you nod, knowing she can see you perfectly in the light.

"Maybe there's something else you could do?" you suggest.

"I need to leave," she insists.

You've never heard her sound this broken. Her voice is cracking and shaky, and something tells you she's about to cry. So you say, "Sarah, you've already left. And you could stay here. It's like running away, except with more certainty."

Her posture shifts, her back straightening. Then she looks like she's collapsing in on herself, and the first sob escapes before she's pressing her hand to her mouth.

You stand up and cross the room, pulling her against you like you think your mom used to do a long time ago. Her cast presses against your side and her good hand clutches at your shirt like she'll never let you go. You say things softly, that things will get better, that it'll be okay, that she's so strong and brave and you're glad you've met her. You tell her she isn't worthless, that she's better than whatever her family tells her. The words feel empty, but you don't know what else to do. You don't know how to make it better, besides offering a place to stay. She chokes out words in response, but you just rub her back and try to reassure her the best you can.

Eventually, she isn't crying as hard and she manages to say, "Do you mean it? I can stay with you?"

"Yes," you say, "I do. You can stay with me."

She tells you that her bag is under the office window, and you sit her on the bed and tell her to wait while you go get it. When you return, she's fast asleep, curled around the pillow.

You can only hope that tomorrow will be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until November, if I skip a Sunday update there is a small (very, very tiny) chance that I will update Tuesday or Thursday. It's not a promise because I'm still busy those days, just not *as* busy as I am on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Other than that, I'll do my best to keep updating regularly on Sundays and give warning if I don't think I'll be updating.


	23. Chapter 23

In the morning, things are normal. Sarah is there and events proceed as they normally do, the two of you getting ready for school around each other. Maybe neither of you smile as much, but in the end it's still just normal, almost disappointingly so.

You're not sure why you expected anything else.

~~~

At recess, your teacher asks you to stay behind for a bit. You agree, albeit a tad grudgingly. One by one your classmates file out the door, throwing guilty glances and the occasional "oooooh" your way. They're not quite sympathetic, because by now everyone knows you ace every assignment without even trying, but you don't mind. You didn't ask for sympathy or even empathy. Still, even though you know you're not in any trouble you also know that not one of them would like to be in your position. Being detained from recess by the teacher? Not fun.

When the door swings shut behind the last kid, your teacher turns to with a smile that's almost wary beneath a sickeningly sweet façade.

"So, Rose," she says conversationally. "I didn't realize that your mom is _the_ Roxy Lalonde."

Just like that, you're ready to bolt.

"I should have known by your grades, and you'll have to forgive me for not making the connection sooner. Your mother must be quite proud of you. You're top of the class, and I'm sure she'd expect nothing less."

You stop listening and smile broadly in lieu of a response. You've heard all this before, all the empty words and praise because of your mother. Now that your teacher knows who your mom is, you'll never hear the end of it. Perfect scores won't be enough anymore and god forbid you have a bad day. It's not about you anymore, You're not Rose, no. You're merely your mother in miniature. Everything about you must be amazing and you can never be anything less than beyond perfect.

Your teacher continues talking, and you continue ignoring her. It strikes you that every time you hear this speech, the adults tell you the same things over and over as if others haven't already told you how much you resemble her or how she has such intelligence that is already showing in you. You'll never understand how adults can think that viewing you as nothing more than Roxy Lalonde's daughter will make you happy.

It's hard to breathe like this, really, listening to your mother's accomplishments and how they will someday measure up to yours. Living in a shadow like this, it's hard to be your own person. There was a year when you'd panic whenever something like this was brought up and run screaming. There were years when you would glow under the words, a time before you realized that they were simply using you as a way to praise your mother for procreating. Now you know that it's not about you, but about her. Just like everything else.

Maybe it would be different if she was asking you about how you feel about who your mother is, or if she could see that your mother isn't the picture of a wonderful parent like she pretends to be. But all they ever see is what your mother wants them to, and even if someone did point out anything about how much your mother drinks you know you would deny it.

When it is beginning to look as though your teacher is going to continue talking for all of recess, you smile at her, the kind that's all teeth and more threat than joy. "While it has been a pleasure listening to you draw comparisons between myself and my mother, my recess is dwindling away to nothing. Any other comments can be forwarded to me through the medium of my graded assignments, and I am quite sure they will be. Thank you."

You turn and walk out of the classroom without waiting for your teacher to gather her pride up off the floor. Being dismissed by one of her students must be a novelty, but you don't know why she expected anything different. You are, after all, nothing but the daughter of Roxy Lalonde. She should have known better than to remind you that you will never be anything more or less than that.

The big double doors squeal as you shove them open, and the playground air bites at your skin. You neglected to bring your coat out, but you can't bring yourself to see how it really matters. There's only a few minutes left of recess anyway.

You sit down on the swings. Sarah's not there, and you worry until you realize that she probably has detention for not doing her homework last night. It's the easiest explanation. You wouldn't have done your homework if you'd had her evening.

Sarah is still conspicuously absent before and after lunch.

She isn't there for afternoon recess.

By the end of the day, you're beginning to panic. There are a lot of things that could have happened to Sarah, and none of them are good. Well, very few of them are good, anyway. When the bell rings to let school out, you make sure you're the first one out of the classroom. You loiter in front of the school, scanning the crowds for Sarah, until you're in danger of missing the bus. Hopefully, you get on, but she isn't there.

The bus driver has started the engine and some of the other busses have already pulled away when she comes sprinting out of the building and to the bus. She raises her hand to pound on the door, but before she can bring her fist down on the glass, the bus driver opens the door. She drops down next to you and smiles, but it doesn't change the scared look in her eyes.

For most of the bus ride, you sit in silence while she pants, trying to get her breath back. Even when she could talk without sucking in a breath every other word, she stays quiet, and you don't push it. She'll tell you when you're home, after all.

Even for the walk to your house, she's quiet, and you start to wonder if something is wrong.

Once you're both safely ensconced in your room, she flops backwards onto your bed with a groan. "Mr. Kirkland kept me through all the recesses and a little bit after because I didn't do any of my work." She rolled her eyes. "He kept askin' about my parents and how home is but I can't tell him home sucks and I left, can I?"

You can't describe the relief that fills you up in that moment, so you just sit on the bed next to her and grin. You had been so worried all day, and now everything would be okay.

You know this can't last forever, but you also know that it could feasibly last for a very long time.


	24. Chapter 24

It's been long enough that you stop glancing over your shoulder every time you hear a siren, long enough that getting home after school doesn't feel like a miniature victory. Time brought caution, and then security. You and Sarah are safe, and her parents don't care that she's disappeared off the face of the earth.

(You'll remember that, next time. It is never safe to stop looking over your shoulder. The worst always comes and you should have known that from bitter experience.)

The day runs normally until the end, and it makes sense that it falls apart then. Things always last until the end, just like how you always find things in the last place you look. You and Sarah walk out the front doors with all the other kids and get on the bus, but they don't notice the police out front. You don't either, really, other than in passing, because it's been long enough to erase paranoia. You're sitting with her on the bus, waiting to depart for home, when the radio scrapes to life. The bus driver fumbles with something in the front and the sound diminishes enough that you can't quite make out the words that come through.

Sarah laughs, half-nervous. "I'm still jumpy," she says like it's a secret.

You nod, because you understand even if you've decided it's been long enough to let go of that fear. But the radio isn't unfamiliar, and it's always something mundane -- a kid who missed the bus, or someone who was supposed to get picked up instead.

The other buses start and sit there rumbling on either side, but your bus remains suspiciously silent. You frown, and Sarah fidgets with her backpack. She's wearing one of your shirts, you notice, and you think you're wearing one of hers, although it's getting hard to tell what originally belonged to her and what was yours. It all comes out of the same set of drawers now.

One by one, the other buses leave until yours is the only one left. The principal comes up to the door and pokes her head in. "Sarah?" she calls, her eyes skimming across the faces in the bus. A few other girls ask "what?" but the principal shakes her head.

Your Sarah glances towards you with panic scribbled over her face. You shrug, trying to remain calm and wanting to scream at her to hide.

"There you are!" the principal's voice is bright and happy, but all you can hear is your world crashing down around your head. Sarah fumbles for your hand and ends up clutching your coat instead. "Come here, honey, there are some people that want to see you."

"No," Sarah mumbles.

Your heart breaks at the fear in her voice.

"What was that?" the principal asks, her voice faltering for a moment.

Sarah looks at you for help. You don't know what to do, so you say, "She said no. She's coming to my house today for -- for a sleepover." You mentally curse the slight stammer; it makes it sound like a lie, makes you sound uncertain and too young to know what's going on.

"Oh, well you can come too. We'll call your mom for you." If you had any hope that things weren't going to blow up, it disappeared in a rush.

"What do we do?" Sarah whispers, tongue tripping over the words in her hurry to get them out.

You want to tell her the truth, that you don't know what to do. Instead, you say, "I guess we have to go," because it's the only option and you know that. They won't be afraid to keep the entire bus back for hours if you refuse to leave.

Sarah looks like she's about to cry, so you hold her hand and stand up first. She bites back something that sounds a lot like a sob and stands up too. You lead the way into the aisle as confidently as you know how, your chin up and making steady eye contact with the principal. Some part of you delights in the confusion on the woman's face.

"I'm Ms. Villa," she says brightly, holding out her hand to you.

"I know," you say, keeping your other hand firmly on your backpack.

"We just need to figure some things out, okay?" Everything in Ms. Villa's voice is unintentionally patronizing, and you want to scream at her that Sarah lives with you now, that you're old enough to know something's wrong and know that she's going to try to take Sarah away.

Sarah trembles at your side, and you stand straighter. Neither of you replies, so Ms. Villa blinks and says, "We're going to my office," and walks away.

She doesn't wait to see if you'll follow, and you're half tempted to grab Sarah and run, but you know that won't solve anything.

This time, Sarah starts walking first.

~~~

There's a woman and a few officers waiting in the office.

"Sarah!" the woman exclaims when you walk in the door.

Sarah takes half a step back like she's going to try to hide behind you. "Auntie?"

"Your parents have missed you," the woman says.

"No they haven't," Sarah corrects like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Ms. Villa stares at us from behind her desk. "Sarah, your aunt has spoken to your parents and she's been talking about you going to live with her. Your parents said that you ran away and we just want to make sure you're safe. Your aunt wishes for you to stay with her for awhile since you've been fighting with your parents."

"I live with Rose," Sarah says simply.

"You can't do that forever," her aunt says. "Your parents and I would like it if you could come stay with me, and we can read books and eat spaghetti and do all those things that we usually do over the summer."

You want to argue because the words seem too easy, like a solution that's nothing more than a lie. But it's not your place, not unless Sarah asks.

"No," Sarah says.

"You're not being given an option," Ms. Villa says, her tone slightly different. "We've already called Ms. Lalonde and she's on her way to pick up Rose. You'll go home with your aunt and that will be the end of this debacle."

"That's ridiculous!" you protest. "Sarah is happy with me! I can take care of her!"

Ms. Villa glares at you, as if you're an outsider who shouldn't be in the room. "I understand that she's your friend, but she cannot live with you for an indefinite amount of time."

"She's already started," you say, and maybe they're the wrong words but you're upset. Something in your chest started tearing when the bus didn't start and it shatters now. "You can't take her away from me! She's my friend!"

The door opens behind you. You whirl, and your mother is standing in the room looking like she's been up and functioning since you left for school.

"Mother?" you choke.

"What's this about, Ms. Villa?" your mother asks, making her way into the room and sitting down in the chair immediately opposite the desk. She sits down and leans forward like it's a personal matter, like it's between her and the principal, like everyone else in the room isn't welcome.

"Were you aware that your daughter's friend has been staying at your house?" Ms. Villa asks.

Part of you hopes. Maybe your mother will lie, or maybe she won't, and maybe either way her answer will let you keep Sarah. She seems sober enough, and maybe you can talk her into convincing them that Sarah is better off with you.

"No," your mother says, "but I imagine it would be easy to sneak someone in. We have a large house and I'm often in the kitchen when Rose comes home."

You want to cry, but Sarah is holding your hand so tightly that you can feel the bones grinding together. You suspect that if you cry she'll run and if that happens there's no way she'll be able to keep living with you.

The adults discuss, and you try to listen but keep getting distracted. Sarah presses against you and you want to tell her it'll be okay, but you're not sure you believe in okay anymore.

In the end, her aunt kneels in front of her and promises that they'll read books every night and play all the games she loves. Sarah shakes her head and you try to argue, but nothing seems to make a difference. Her aunt picks her up like she's younger than she is, but she doesn't let go of your hand.

"Rose," your mother orders.

You blink hard to keep tears back. "No."

"I don't want to go," Sarah sobs.

"Let go," your mother says, and you panic because that voice means nothing is going to end well. They're taking Sarah away and if you let go your mother will still be upset, so you just hold on tighter and tighter until her heels click across the room and she pries your fingers away from Sarah's.

Sarah's aunt turns and leaves as fast as she can with Sarah kicking and screaming.

"Thank you for calling me," your mother says with a smile to Ms. Villa. "I'll be in touch."

Ms. Villa returns with small talk that you can't stand to listen to.

Outside, a car drives away, and finally your mother turns to leave.

"Come along, Rose," she says and leaves before you can protest.

You slink out the door behind her, defeated and burning with anger.

You hate them all.

~~~

Your mother doesn't say a word the entire way home, and it hurts you more than any harsh words could. It's like she knows what she did, knows that she could have changed things and didn't just to punish you.

~~~

When the sun sets, you sneak out and walk all the way to Sarah's house. The lights are off and the cars are missing. You peek in through the windows, but the rooms are all empty except for a handful of boxes in the living room.

You sit on the porch and you cry.

~~~

The next day at school, you are apoplectic. You slept angry and you woke up angry and you're not going to let them make you forget how angry you are.

They've all told you that you're the perfect miniature of your mother, as if you're a mere clone. Not born, but created. The product of perfection itself, not the result of Punnett Square roulette between two mortals.

You've never understood it until now.

Now you're furious, boiling burning rage scorching across fear and hunger and loneliness, erasing the differences in power between you and the adults that refuse to understand. The people around you seem laid bare, motivations and sympathies glittering to your appraising eye like broken glass on jagged rocks. You only pick the best words, the best moves. Today, you're a jeweler, withdrawing the diamond of never-forgotten sorrow from a lost sibling, separating out the construction-quality material that isn't fit for what you desire. You weave fierce arguments, spinning words from nothing but air and understanding, speaking with calm eloquence befitting your last name.

Inside, you spit and writhe. You're dangerous like this, you understand now, all the more so because they see only your mother. Your mother, all public-softened edges, smiles and sparkling life. You're not like that, no -- you're dagger sharp, cutting and snipping to pull blood to the surface. She plays on gleeful emotion, drawing people in. But you, you play on buried injury, using it to refine your tongue and get your way. Lalondes don't know how to lose; long ago you would sleepily watch as your mother scribbled on page after page, mapping ideas and solutions to problems. You needn't plan so severely; you simply know the other players in this little game well enough to force them to their knees with a word.

The entire world will bow to your whims someday. It could have been your mother, but she forgot her goals and succumbed to drink. You will never, ever do that.

You can see your teacher bleeding from your words. Her doubt is palpable, painting the air sick-sweet, and you wonder if she was involved in last night's decision. The entire school knows that Sarah was living with you by now, and you're determined to make them regret taking her away. Making them hurt won't bring her back, but it'll force them to think twice before crossing you again. Sarah wasn't going to be staying with her aunt, and you knew that the second you saw the packed boxes through the cracked window. It was a stupid ploy, a rotting promise made out of pretend obligation. A child should be with her parents, of course. No better place than pretty home with its caricatures of love falling away once the media and cops have drifted back to their regularly scheduled lives. But the rest of the world, oh. It doesn't matter, not at all. An unexpected move? Her family was merely mourning the loss of their daughter and could no longer bear to stay where she had disappeared. They weren't spiriting her away to where she could no longer have friends, support.

It was unforgivable, this. Sarah had gone with resistance and backwards glances slipped in between screamed protests. She knew, too. Knew that the fabled home of laughter and love provided by her aunt would fall through the second she walked into her house.

They'd taken everything, and you would never forget. That was a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	25. Chapter 25

And for all that anger, nothing happens. There is no one that you can force to pay for this. You hold onto it for as long as you can, clinging to it like holding a knife the wrong way so it cuts deeper the tighter you grasp, but in the end you're left feeling hollowed and exhausted. You finish the psychology book, read it through to the end, and instead of enlightenment you're left disillusioned with nothing to show for your patience other than a bigger vocabulary filled with jargon you hardly know how to use. It wasn't magic, it didn't have some secret that you could tell your mom to bring her back to you.

A few weeks ago, you might have lifted your chin and declared that you could make your own magic, some way, somehow. But this isn't a few weeks ago.

There's no one left for you to talk to, really. You write John a short letter:

_Dear John,_

_Everything has fallen apart and I don't know what to do._

_-Rose_

Of course, he responds promptly enough, cheerful and reassuring and everything that grates against your nerves, frayed as they are from helplessness and loss. You sink into yourself, something your teacher notices, but fails to address, probably worried about somehow offending your mother. Acerbic remarks rise to your tongue faster than ever, driving everyone else farther and farther away. The weather gets colder and colder like a metaphor for your insides, and you alternate between devouring classic books for the challenge and staring listlessly at the ceiling, watching the fan spin in circle after circle, pointless like everything else.

Some time before Christmas break you take yourself to the library, sick of books and sick of the fan. You settle in front of the blue glow of a bulky outdated computer monitor, and without any expectations for anything to come of it, you google a discussion forum for _Pride and Prejudice_ , your most recent literary conquest. You take the first result and read a few of the posts. One name keeps popping up repeatedly -- turntechGodhead. He doesn't disagree with your opinions, per se, but you're bored and restless like a cat pacing and twitching its tail (nothing satisfying, everything wrong, wanting to start a fight just for the kill at the end), so you make an account and reply to one of his threads, ripping his opinion apart with cited page numbers and outside sources.

You meant to respectfully disagree for the sake of debate, maybe just start a conversation. But what you type up instead is an unprovoked attack, a bomb dropped on a neighboring nation out of wanton malice. You hit "post" before you think better of it, and lean back with a tight smile. You sit for a moment, half proud of yourself, entertained by playing devil's advocate and arguing for something you don't believe, but then the doubts creep in. This is an internet stranger. You've never spoken to him before. He'd done nothing other than type without capitalization.

You kind of think that this isn't the sort of person you wanted to become.

You're halfway worked into an apology, ready to maybe even delete your reply, but when you refresh the page he has replied to you, all brazen and half arrogant, not rude but close enough to make you forget that you were going to regret what you said. There's nothing to do but keep the argument going, and he replies in kind, until it's hours later and the library is close to closing and moderators are stepping in to give gentle reminders to respect each other's opinions and keep the discussion polite. You both reply to that with a graceful concession that _maybe_ things have been getting too heated, oh so sorry, won't happen again, don't worry because next time the knives will be concealed behind backs instead of held openly between teeth.

Your apologies appear at nearly the same time, different words but the same meaning, elegant and flawlessly contrite with a hidden undertone of malice that promises something good. You grin, showing teeth with actual happiness for the first time in awhile, and you have a strong feeling that somewhere, this faceless stranger is feeling the same kinship to you that you feel to him.

Over the intercom someone announces that the library will be closing in twenty minutes, will everyone please begin to wrap up their activities, and a little (1) pops up from the envelope indicating your messages on the site.

Expecting some sort of private chastising from another moderator, you click it, and instead it's from your new nemesis himself:

_ im not done if you arent _

You take a breath and reply:

_ I definitely have more to say on the topic, but unfortunately it is nearly time for me to go. Perhaps we could continue this tomorrow? _

Almost immediately he says:

 _sure. same time?_  
  
_Yes. I will be here._

And with that you log out and turn off the computer, ready to head home, no longer bored and somehow feeling just a little less alone.


	26. Chapter 26

Your conversations with turntechGodhead -- Dave, you find out, is his real name -- continue, keeping the edge of malice and shameless confrontation, but you're pretty sure that you've both reached an agreement of sorts. It's an outlet for both of you, these petty arguments where neither of you really support your true opinion. The longer you talk the more you can pick out the little bits of truth in his arguments, subtle insights to his actual opinions.

After you finish ripping Pride and Prejudice to pieces without baring your hearts to each other, he recommends Moby Dick and you suggest Frankenstein just to keep the conversation going.

The library's hours never seemed an inconvenience before, but come closing time now you find yourself wishing for just another hour or two. You spend your evenings working on another book to discuss with him or outlining new arguments to allow the most constructive use of your time online (and you get better and better at guessing which stance he'll take, so your dance can be planned out well in advance).

The idea to ask your mom for a computer of your own comes in fits and spurts. She's reclaimed hers recently, moving it from room to room with a subtle touch that discourages you from borrowing it without her saying a word. You finally work up the courage and leave a sticky note on her computer asking for one of your own, maybe, for Christmas? And nothing else? The next day the note is gone without a trace, and it doesn't hurt because you didn't expect anything to come of it anyway (or at least that's what you tell yourself).

~~~

Halfway through your next battle, Dave stops midsentence, hits enter and loses his train of thought with a "shit" that burns your innocent eyes. You shoot back with an insincere reprimand about his language, and he says in return

 _sorry its just been a really bad day_  
_i dont want to unload it on you or anything but i dont think i can do this today_  
_we can talk tomorrow_

Your heart plummets, dropping down to your shoes. It's only been a few weeks, but you'd like to consider him a friend and thought he felt the same. Tentatively, you offer

 _I'm a pretty good listener and really, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to tell me._  
_We can do more than tell the other that their opinion is wrong._  
_I'd like to be friends?_

You hit enter on the last message before you can think better of it and then bite hard on your tongue, punishing yourself for your foolishness. Your thoughts race, all _he'll hate me now, he never wanted that you fool, it's all ruined now, he'll turn and run and you'll have lost this too,_ but then he responds

 _i dunno dude_  
_striders dont really have feelings jams or anything like that_  
_friends could be pretty cool though_

 

 _Don't worry,_   _i_ _f I don't share my feelings it won't become a dreaded "feelings jam," and friends are supposed to tell each other when something's wrong._

  
You hesitate, then add:

 

_Besides, I'm a faceless internet stranger. You don't have anything to lose. It's not like I'm going to out your feelings to your family._

 

 _i dunno thats oddly specific are you sure you dont secretly have bro on speedial_  
_like yo that kid in your apartment is having feelings better kick his ass with a sword and smother him in smuppets before that shit gets out_  
_might tarnish the family name or something_  
_cant have that_

 

_Does your brother really kick your ass with a sword?_

 

 _we have mock battles but thats not the point_  
_anyway whats this friend thing i dunno how you do that_

 

_Typically you share your feelings and your friend listens and offers certain sage advice, perhaps seeing into your psyche and revealing some deeply personal information that you wouldn't have realized about yourself on your own for many years._

 

 _i dunno that sounds like some shrink bullshit_  
_what are you going to offer next_  
_a couch for me to lay on while you psychoanalyze me_

_Would you accept the offer of a couch?_

 

_hell fucking yes_

You giggle a little, and reply, and the conversation goes on.

You really do think you made a friend.

~~~~

Come Christmas there's a roast ham from somewhere (your mom didn't make it, you're certain) acting as the centerpiece to a flawlessly decorated table, a computer box with a floppy bow under the christmas tree, and a wizard book in wizard wrapping paper in a stocking. Your mom is hungover, which is better than drunk but not by much. She winces and draws the curtains against the snow outside and carves an awkward piece of dinner for you.

You eat together in strained silence, and you bite your tongue every time conversation almost slips out. You want to thank her, but you know she's just as apt to snap at you as she is to quirk a little smile and continue a pretense of family.

John sent you a couple pictures of the decorations at his home and a picture of himself, wearing a goofy disguise and a santa hat. His letter complains of fruitcakes and other desserts covering every surface of in the kitchen and fatherly pranks that just makes you ache for a normal holiday. The fondness and happiness of the upcoming celebration comes through in John's letter, and it makes you miss the long ago Christmases where you and your mom would string popcorn garlands together and drink eggnog (without the alcohol). You remember her throwing her head back, laughing at some unremembered comment you had made. You used to want to be just like her in that moment, one side of her shirt slipping off her shoulder, perfect teeth grinning, eyes merry with firelight reflected in them.

Instead of thanking her in person, you write her a nice thank you note and leave it next to the half drunk bottle of liquor on the counter, along with a little giftbox holding the constellation earrings you got for her.

You message Dave, not expecting a response, but you get one anyway.

_Hello. Are you there?_

_sup_

The conversation is dead right there, you realize. In recent weeks you and Dave have talked about things other than books, but now you're at a loss as to what to say. You want to wish him happy holidays and ask what he's doing, but instead

_I'm Rose Lalonde. You've told me your name but I haven't given you mine. It's Rose. My mom's an alcoholic and I have this other friend, John, who's having a great time with his dad right now. He says it's terrible but it sounds perfect to me. I want to be happy but my mom's hungover and hasn't said a word to me in months. I hate it a lot. I honestly really fucking hate it._

He types, and stops, and types, and stops, and then

 _do i need to prepare my couch_  
_freud is the only psychobullshit i know but we can make it work_

Despite yourself, you smile a little.

_If the couch is too much trouble, I suppose I could just make do with a pile of puppet ass in the corner._

 

 _hell yeah the puppet ass will fix you right up lalonde_  
_bro is straight motherfuckin santa right now_  
_weve got puppet ass strung around the house and its some pretty festive shit_  
_but just for you i can take down the decorations and make it into a pile_

 

_I'd hate to ruin your festivities._

 

 _nah we can replace the smuppets with shitty swords_  
_itll be ironic or some shit_  
_bro will love it_  
_black and chrome christmas is right up his alley_  
_much better than all these colorful puppet asses_

He sends a picture attachment, and sure enough there's a garland of garish puppet ass and evergreen strung over a cheap cardboard cutout of a fireplace and mantel, complete with painted on flames in the hearth. An uncomfortable looking straight-backed chair sits off to the side as a parody of a comfortable hearth-side rocking chair. Barely on screen is half of a pile of swords and a couch that looks like it was pulled from a frat house mid-party with stains in dubious places and a sword stabbed straight into the back.

_Those are some truly delightful Christmas decorations, truly keeping in line with the true spirit of the holidays._

 

 _right_  
_bros disappeared though_  
_i think he went off to duel with some friends or something_

It's bad news but it makes you smile just a little nonetheless and suddenly you don't feel very alone at all.


	27. Epilogue

John gets a computer that Christmas too, and he invites you to start using Pesterchum. You invite Dave in turn and introduce them even though you expect it to go badly, but John has the right personality to joke along with Dave without getting caught up in the occasional too-harsh comments. School is still lonely, but it doesn't seem to matter quite as much when you can come home and talk to your friends online.

John introduces you and Dave to Jade some time the next February, after meeting her on some corner of the internet where she asked for some pumpkin recipes. John's dad had some good ones, and then the rest was history. She's giggles in delight once she realizes who you are, and you apologize for never writing her. She's the sort of bubbly that doesn't mind that long break and promises that you can make it up to her as long as you talk to her now.

You're starting to think that it might be possible to be happy.

~~~

Somewhere on a meteor beyond the end of the world, you meet Roxy Lalonde and it finally works out all right. She'd died in your arms this time around, and you'd died in hers last time around, and damn if that's not a bonding moment but you still didn't know her, still worried about meeting her because you didn't know if she'd be your mom sweating alcohol while she pretended to clean with a martini in hand or the happy sober woman you rarely saw and missed dearly. But as soon as she and John appear she flops over you in a hug, not giving you a single chance to be awkward about the unfamiliar physical contact.

She smells like fresh air from a planet surrounded by an atmosphere instead of void and the faint bitter undertone of a timeline gone bad, but there's not a hint of alcohol on her breath.

You hug back and grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, uh. I have no excuses for myself, but it's done now.
> 
> I tried to format the conversations between Rose and Dave like Peterlogs but couldn't get it to work so I hope it's not too confusing to read.
> 
> Also, I finished Homestuck so if anyone wants to talk about the ending, let me know.


End file.
